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Chapter Text

There has been no Ring of Power for Thranduil, the great Elvenking.

Nenya, Ring of Adamant, was wielded by Galadriel and protected the woods of Lothlorien. Vilya, Ring of Firmament, was a tremendous help for Elrond by enhancing his healing ability as well as giving him some power over the elements.The Red Ring of Fire, Narya, had been given to Círdan, Lord of the Havens, who had given it to Mithrandir in return. Why one of the Elven Rings had ended in the hands of a Maia, Thranduil did not know.

Of all leaders of the Elven nations only he remained ring-less. Weren’t Mirkwood’s needs for protection as great, or even greater, than the other lands’? Silvan Elves have always been seen as low-born, less wise than their Sindar or Noldor brethren. Even though Thranduil himself was of Sindar descent, his people were not. Did that make them expendable, less worth of protection from the ever growing darkness?

And people wondered why Thranduil had decided not to concern himself with the fate of the other lands. Have anyone ever really cared for Mirkwood Elves? No. So why should they care for others?

After the War of the Ring Thranduil had been observing with growing distaste how Elrond and Galadriel began to lose power over their respective lands. The Elves had started to migrate to west en masse, leaving Imladris and Lothlorien depopulated, a pitiful shade of the once great Elven kingdoms – and their leaders had done nothing to stop them. Had Elrond and Galadriel really become so dependent from the Rings’ powers so that losing them meant losing the will to fight, to live?

Only the Elves of Eryn Lasgalen had prevailed. And although technically they could sail west, they had chosen not to. The War of the Ring hadn’t changed anything for them: the Middle Earth was their home, for better and for worse, even if it meant fading to oblivion over the span of a millennium.

And yet, the doubt lingered in Elvenking’s mind. Would him owning a Ring of Power have made a change in the final outcome of the war?

The Age of Men has been nothing but disappointing so far. After the death of King Elessar and coronation of his son, Eldarion, the Reunited Kingdoms of Gondor and Arnor had fell apart, the lands east to the Misty Mountains had been conquered by the united forces of Khand, Harad and Umbar. The Black Númenóreans had become the new rulers of Men and their blood was as old and powerful as the blood of King Elessar was.

Now it was the year 142 of the Fourth Age of the Sun as herald of the Haradwaith Empire came to Eryn Lasgalen to council.

Finally, a nation sensible enough to recognize Thranduil as a force to be reckoned with!

“I am Ulbar, the Mouth of the Empire. Blessings of the Flame Imperishable to you and your subjects, great king of the Elves,” said the emissary, standing proud in Thranduil’s throne chamber.

The king bowed his head slightly in acknowledgement.

“I thank you for your blessing. Although it surprises me to hear such words coming from the mouth of the Dark Practitioner,” he said mildly, vaguely interested. The Haradwaith Empire had resurrected the Dark Cult (also known as Shadow Cult) and the ruling dynasty has been openly worshipping Morgoth the fallen Vala ever since.

“Melkor the Great has always desired and admired the Secret Flame, the divine power of creation,” Ulbar answered without missing a beat. “It is the Holy Emperor’s wish to point out the similarities between our people.”

“What about the differences?” asked Thranduil evenly. “You worship Melkor, who has hated the Eldar race from the very first moment we had appeared on this world. And you are mortal, we are not.”

“I beg your forgiveness, great king, but while it is true that we are mortal, this age belongs to us. Our empire grows and thrives, while Eryn Lasgalen is the last elven stronghold left in the Middle Earth. You are alone, king Thranduil, and you know it,” the emissary’s voice was like steel clothed in silk.

Thranduil’s voice in return was the bare steel, no silk whatsoever, “Is that a threat, Haradrim?”

“No, great king. I was send here by my Emperor not to threaten you, but to endow you with a gift.”

“I have no need for riches,” said Thranduil dismissively.

“I assure you, this gift you will like,” countered Ulbar. “The Holy Emperor of the Haradwaith Empire, the Divine Sun and the Blessed Moon of the race of Men, is bestowing upon you the magic grimoire of Ar-Pharazôn, the Golden King of Anadûnê.” The emissary gestured to his servants, who brought forth a small chest, adorned with gold and precious stones.

Thranduil took the chest, startled. If It was true… If it wasn’t a fake…

Ar-Pharazôn had been the greatest and the most ambitious king the Edain race has ever had. He had successfully marched on Mordor and imprisoned the Dark Lord Sauron himself. He had also been the last king of Númenor, as his decision to attack Valinor and demand the gift of immortality had caused the ire of Eru Ilúvatar who had sunken the island under the sea.

There was nothing left of the Ar-Pharazôn’s legacy, at least that’s what Thranduil had thought. The few survivors who had managed to escape the catastrophe had taken some precious artifacts with them, like Palantiri or the fruit of the White Tree, but all worldly possessions of the Golden King were rumored to be lost, until now.

“That is… interesting, to say the least, but what would I do with a magic grimoire? And what would the Emperor expect of me in return?” he asked carefully, trying not to express his eagerness.

“My Lord is most gracious ruler and what he gives, he gives without any strings attached. If you want it, the grimoire is yours to read and to use in whatever manner you deem appropriate,” answered Ulbar. “All my Lord asks of you is to keep your mind open. After all, the history is only ever written by the victors, or in Númenor’s case, the survivors.”

“Then please convey the Emperor my thanks. You are welcome to stay in Eryn Lasgalen as long as you want to before you travel back to the Empire,” Thranduil offered.

“That will not be necessary, great king. I would not risk your displeasure as I am afraid that some of the rites I need to perform regularly would offend your people,” said the emissary, bowing apologetically.

“You mean the Dark Cult rites?” asked Thranduil, his interest peaked against his better judgement. “I don’t know much about them, although rumor says they involve human sacrifice, bloodshed and murder.”

“That is just a hateful slander that contorts the true meaning of our religion. Most of the rituals we perform require a willingness of the participant. We shed our blood and sacrifice our lives willingly for the Darkness Eternal."

“Indeed,” the Elvenking murmured. “Then please feel welcome to stay, at least for a couple of days. It would be enlightening to learn more about the traditions of your people.”

If Ulbar was surprised by his lack of scorn towards the Shadow Cult, he didn’t show it.

“The feeling is mutual, king Thranduil. I thank you for your hospitality,” the emissary bowed low and exited the chamber followed by his servants.

Thranduil nodded at his seneschal Galion to take care of the guests.

He was deep in thoughts when he was approached by his Captain of Guard, Tauriel, “May I ask a question, My Lord?”

In the last couple of centuries Tauriel had become a confidant of his, or as close to one as he allowed. She was a level-headed, intelligent Elf, save from the matters of a heart. But in the matters of war he trusted her implicitly.

“You may, Tauriel.”

“Why are you so accommodating to these Men, My Lord? They are as Dark as they come.”

“Dark they may be but I will not make them our enemies unless I have to. The Harad Empire is the leading power of this age, it would not be wise to annoy the Emperor needlessly. Those Men have done nothing to deserve our enmity so far,” explained Thranduil.

“But they worship Morgoth!” exclaimed Taurier incredulously.

“And yet they are willing to part with Ar-Pharazôn’s belongings. I still need to discover why the Emperor would give me this grimoire at all. His motives may be sinister, no matter how benign they appear at the first glance,” he said as he looked at the chest lying innocently at his lap. “If it is a trap, I need to know.”

* * *

This evening he sent all his servants away. He sat alone in his private chambers, hands shaking as they slowly opened the chest. Inside there was an old book with rich, leather binding. He carefully took the book out and opened it tentatively.

The Most Potent Magics of Arda by Pharazôn the Magician

For a moment, Thranduil considered chucking the grimoire away and never looking at it again. He has always been a warrior, a mighty elven warlord, but a sorcerer he was not. That was Galadriel’s forte. What was he doing, reading the dreaded book of the forbidden magic arts? But curiosity won over the caution and soon he was engrossed in the reading.

Standing before the Darkness Eternal I am no lord, no king, no ruler. I am the servant of the Shadow and thus I will not add the royal Ar- before my name. I am only Pharazôn as I have always been since my birth on this wretched earth. I find myself small and insignificant comparing to the vast greatness of the Shadow, and I am ever its willing and dutiful servant.

I write this words for my future Heir to read and to obey, though no compulsion will be delivered through this tome. Only willing sacrifice will finalize the deed I started here, at the edge of the world. The Undying Lands are my final destination and I know in my heart of hearts that this voyage will not end well.

Oh, Sauron promised me immortality and divine power with this golden tongue of his but I am no fool. The Ban of the Valar says that no Man can travel to Valinor and it feels like a bind upon my soul. Disobeying the Ban will be my undoing and this bitter knowledge weighs upon me heavily. But disobey I must or all I have done, all the blood that I have shed will be in vain.

Tomorrow I will sail to Aman and I expect to be slain for this deed. Furthermore, I predict that all my people are going to be punished with me. This is the ultimate sacrifice. I am going to sacrifice the whole Númenor so that my Heir can fulfil the destiny written well before the Sun and the Moon.

It is said that the Final Battle, Dagor Dagorath, will happen when Vala Melkor breaks the Door of Night. It is both humbling and terrifying that I, the low servant of the Darkness Eternal, had actually found the way to break the binds of the Great Void put upon my Lord and Master. It will not happen in a century or even in a millennium. But happen it will and the duty to aid Melkor the Great falls to my Heir.

If in doubt, know this: my Heir will not be of my blood. He will not even be of the Race of Men. I have seen him in my dreams, the Heir of my soul: he will be one of the Eldar, shunned and underestimated, hidden in the Shadows of his abode. His duty will be to his land and his subjects only, he will serve neither Valar nor Maiar. He will wear a crown but he will be considered lesser in wisdom and power by others. No Ring will adorn his fingers and no one’s orders will he take but his own.

To you, my Heir in everything but blood, I say: you are the Key to the Door of Night that binds my Lord in the Void. I have sacrificed everything I have ever held dear so there will be a power for you to use to sever the bindings of the time itself. In my dreams I have seen that you will be the deciding factor in creating the Arda Remade. But remember this: you must serve no Vala, you must have no master but yourself.

You must travel through time and space to make all the changes needed so that Dagor Dagorath ends as you wills it. My Lord Melkor will walk through Arda again, but you will be his bind in this world and you shall decide when and where will he be unleashed upon the world. Choose wisely, my Heir, for you hold the world’s fate in your hands.

Chapter Text

Choose wisely, my Heir, for you hold the world’s fate in your hands.

The tome fell from Thranduil's unresponsive fingers to his lap. His thoughts were in disarray because of the first few pages he read in Ar-Pharazôn's magic grimoire, and it was only the beginning!

Was he supposed to belive that he was the spiritual heir to the Dark Númenórean king? That he was destined to release the greatest evil Arda has ever known and thus cause the prophesied end of the world? The Harad's Emperor must believe it, otherwise he would not part with a rare artifact so easily and without any strings attached.

Thranduil could honestly say that Darkness has never been something that he sought or desired, at least until now. But centuries of bitterness and discontent apparently had left a trace that could be easily exploited by a few words of flattery and promises of greatness. He had always wanted to matter, he desired awe and recognition for his deeds. None of this had ever happened and it left a festering wound in his heart. Was he truly that mediocre a king that in all history books he was only ever mentioned in passing, as an afterthought?

If Ar-Pharazôn's prediction was true, if Thranduil would be able to travel through time, then maybe the history could be changed to his satisfaction? Maybe he could save his father in the Battle of Dagorlad? Or make sure Isildur destroyed the One Ring which Elrond had failed to do? He would make Greenwood the Great, as Mirkwood had once been called, the mightiest Elven kingdom in the Middle Earth. He would be revered and respected and none of the awful Third-Age mess need ever happen.

But at what price? Could he embrace the Darkness for the advantages it offered and not to fall in its trap? The grimoire had said that Ar-Pharazôn's heir would be the one to open the Door of Night and release the Dark Lord Morgoth from the Void he was imprisoned in. Sauron was only a lesser being comparing to Morgoth and had once been his most trusted servant. Was destroying a servant worth the danger of releasing his master? Thranduil couldn't help but shudder at the thought of a being darker and crueler than Sauron himself.

With a sigh he put the book away. These musings of his were useless. He didn't even know if the prophecy truly spoke of him and not someone else. Who knows, maybe the whole thing was false and Ar-Pharazôn had been simply delusional?

He stood up, put on a light robe and left his chambers, still troubled. He walked through the quiet halls of his kingdom and tried to calm his heart. His feet took him to the gardens which had been his late wife's pride. He always came here when he wanted to clear his mind, this evening was no different.

He didn't know how long he just stood there, deep in thoughts. Doubts and hopes warred in him, equal in strength. The sun had hidden beneath the horizon when he finally decided to go back to his rooms. To his surprise, his guest was waiting for him just outside of the gardens.

“I hope you didn't wait for me too long, ambassador.”

“Not at all. The guard said you sought rest in the gardens and I didn't want to disturb your peace,” said Ulbar. “I actually came here with an offer, great king.”

“Indeed?” asked Thranduil, intrigued.

“I was about to perform a ritual my faith requires of me. I would like you to witness it,” the herald explained. “If nothing else, it should serve the purpose of resolving any doubts you may have about the Shadow Cult.”

A cold shudder went through Thranduil's back, he couldn't tell whether it was from fright or anticipation.

“Would I be required to participate in this ritual of yours?” he asked.

“Absolutely not! The holy rites are not for infidels,” Ulbar protested sternly. “Only those of true faith, the sworn servants of the Darkness Eternal are allowed to participate in our ceremonies.”

Thranduil felt relief that he needn't to be an active participant. But what shocked him to the core was that he also felt some... disappointment. Was he truly that eager to wallow in Darkness?

He let none of his inner turmoil appear on his face as he answered, “Then I would be delighted to just learn and observe.”

That seemed to satisfy Ulbar just fine. He led the Elvenking to the guest rooms and invited him in. Feeling like he was about to breach some kind of spiritual threshold, Thranduil hesitated. Ulbar looked at him questioningly.

“Could witnessing this ritual change me in any way?” asked the Elvenking.

The herald regarded him calculatingly.

“It cannot create a darkness in your soul, it can only wake what is already there, my lord,” he answered and opened the door invitingly.

Thranduil found himself succumbing to the temptation. He has never been good at resisting them, anyway.

Ulbar's room was almost ascetic and Thranduil knew it was a new development. All guest chambers were prepared to be leisurely comfortable, with silk sheets, lush carpets and silver adornments. This room was almost empty and it was obvious that it was done on purpose.

As if reading his mind, the ambassador explained, “A true servant of Darkness does not need comforts nor riches so I asked your seneschal to remove all the unnecessary items. Besides, I would rather not leave bloodstains on your carpets, great king,” added Ulbar wryly.

The tips of the Elvenking’s lips turned upwards, the only visible sign that he was amused.

“No, I would not be thrilled about seeing my carpets bloodstained, that I am sure,” he admitted. “May I sit, then, and watch?” he gestured to the empty wooden chair that was placed in the corner.

“Certainly, my lord. I only ask you to remain silent, any question you may have I will try to answer afterwards.”

“Agreed. By all means, proceed.”

While Ulbar had started the preparations the Elvenking observed him intently. The Southron was handsome, at least in the ways of mortal Men. He was tall, he had short coal black hair and tan skin, though fairer than olive-skinned Easterlings, the desert-dwellers from the far East. The man moved with silent grace as he took out a bowl, a whip and a knife and put them all on the floor. Then he knelt before them, feet close, his torso proudly upright.

“I call to you, Everlasting Darkness. Receive my prayers with grace and allow my lesser blood to be sacrificed for your pleasure. I seek no glory, desire no honours, await no compensation. Take me and break me, twist me and destroy me, until I am no more.”

The Southron removed his shirt, revealing a scarred torso underneath. He picked up the wicked looking whip with several strands ended with metal tips then started to beat himself with it.

When the first blow landed, Thranduil was repulsed. Why was the man mutilating himself in such gruesome way? What was the point? He doubted the Darkness cared for it either way. But he must have missed something important, because Ulbar’s face was solemn and intense, and although a film of sweat broke out on his forehead, the man looked almost at peace, showing nothing of the agony he must be going through.

After the ninth blow Ulbar stopped and bowed lowly to the ground, his skin touching the cold stone for a moment before straightening again.

“I call to you, Everlasting Darkness,” intoned the Southron again, his voice hoarse but firm. “Thank you for all the blessings you bestowed upon me, for the pain you brought me, for the strength you drained from me. This is my atonement for a life lived in the wretched Light. When my time comes, receive my mortal soul with mercy.”

This time Ulbar took the small dagger and made a deep gash on his left forearm. The blood trickled slowly to the stone bowl.

“With my blood and faith will I share, so I swear on my forefathers’ names.”

The Southron bowed one last time, then finally looked at the petrified Elvenking.

“It is done,” he croaked, putting the bloodied blade away.

Thranduil got up then knelt on the floor before the man, gently evaluating his wounds. They were nasty and deep enough to scar but not enough to cause serious injury. But seeing as Ulbar’s back was awfully scarred already, he presumed that such whipping had been a regular occurrence for the man.

“Why? Why would you do that to yourself?” the Elvenking asked incredulously.

“Because it is my heritage and my duty. Ever since the sinking of Anadûnê the Dark worshippers has been tasked with performing blood rites. So will it be, generation after generation, until the world crumbles and shatters.”

Looking into Ulbar’s ecstasy-filled eyes, Thranduil had a terrible epiphany. If these blood rites could really be traced back in time to the downfall of Númenor… If they were being performed ever since… Could they be an extension of sacrifices Ar-Pharazôn had mentioned in his grimoire? Could it be that hundreds, thousands of Black Númenóreans have bled and suffered for years just to enhance the Heir’s power?

Thranduil’s power, if the grimoire was to be believed.

“I feel no magic in this rite, no power whatsoever. How can you be sure that the ritual is working?” he asked, his mind in turmoil.

Ulbar had seemed to hesitate for a moment before he answered, “Because you are not one of us. You are of Light, not of Shadow. But the power is here. Oh, it is here,” the man closed his eyes and seemed to soak in the darkness only he seemed to perceive.

Suddenly Thranduil felt exhausted, the evening’s events finally catching up with him. He slowly stood up, feeling the weight of ages long gone by upon his shoulders.

“I hope that you are allowed to treat these wounds?” he inquired.

Ulbar seemed to realise that their meeting was coming to an end.

“Yes, great king. I am going to call my servant after your leave.”

“Then I wish you a good night, ambassador.”

Just as he was going to open the door, Thranduil remembered something.

“What is the blood in the bowl needed for?” he asked.

“It is to be drunk, my lord, by my fellow Dark servants.”

The answer haunted the Elvenking long into the night.

Chapter Text

The blood forcibly taken is different than the blood freely given. It tastes different and it gives the drinker a different kind of power. Although it is not recommended, the blood taken will give the Mage a huge burst of strength if only for a short time. Afterwards, the Mage will weaken considerably and will be even more vulnerable than before drinking the blood. After all, violence is a useful but unsophisticated tool. Magic-wise, it will crush one’s enemy with a strength of a mace but it will leave the Magic user exposed to a strike back.

It should be said here that we, the Dark Practitioners, do not condone using torture and murder in the Magic rites. It leaves a sour taste in our mouth but more importantly, it stains our fëar, our immortal souls. It should not be done but for the direst of needs.

The true power that once acquired cannot be taken away derives from the blood sacrificed consciously and willingly. To truly accept pain, loss, even death, is the greatest source of Magic I have encountered in my live. Oh, I have searched for other ways in hope that I wouldn’t have to sacrifice myself and my people. It tears me apart to know that my men will suffer for the decision I made and although they would eagerly follow me to this world’s end, I wish they needn’t have to. But the search proved futile, there is no other way.

The sheer magnitude of the rite I am going to perform is crippling me from the inside. So many things could go wrong! The key to success is to anger the Valar so much that they will be blinded by their rage. I need to be as insolent, audacious, and daring as I can. They have to be so enraged that their fury will cloud any possible thoughts of forgiveness. I don’t want to be forgiven. I want to be punished and punished severely. This is my sacrifice. Let them curse my name, let them destroy me and my people with me. With this judgement they will be sealing their own doom.

The future looks bleak from where I stand but I know that in another age my words will be heard and headed. This is the legacy I leave to you, my future Heir.

The candle flickered one last time before dying out. Thranduil massaged his temples tiredly, trying to wish away his migraine. He had gotten no rest this night, nor any other night since he had been given the accursed book. What was in the grimoire that called to him so strongly?

For the last few days he had avoided his Haradrim guests, trying to avoid the temptation to learn more about the Shadow Cult. He felt strangely conflicted, as if Light and Darkness fought inside him with his soul as a prize.

With a sigh he stood up and changed his clothes to something appropriate for a political meeting. This behavior of his needed to stop, he wasn’t a lowborn to show his moods so openly. He was the King of the Woodland Realm, and it was a high time he started to act like one - no more avoiding everyone and brooding in his rooms like an ill-humored child.

When he arrived to the dining chamber, the breakfast had already been served. He pretended not to notice the worried glances from both his Elves and the visiting Men. He took his usual seat, Tauriel on his right side and Ulbar on the left.

“Please forgive my absence of the last few days, ambassador. I was feeling slightly unwell,” offered Thranduil as a greeting.

“This is a relief and a pleasure to see you this morning, my lord,” answered Ulbar. “Please forgive my bluntness, but you do look tired and weary. Is something troubling you, if I may ask?”

The Elvenking almost snorted. The Man had brought the accursed book to Thranduil’s kingdom, and he had the audacity to ask whether something was troubling him?

“No, do not apologize.” He waved his hand dismissively. “No need to worry on my account. A couple hours of rest and I will be my usual irritating self.”

Tauriel choked on a mouthful, and Thranduil asked with false innocence, “Are you alright, Captain?”

“Perfectly, my Lord,” she answered, blushing from embarrassment.

“Good.”

Thranduil hid the smallest of smiles behind a cup of juice. Suddenly he felt famished, like he hadn’t eaten for days, which had probably been the case. No matter, this could be easily remedied. He started to pile food on his plate, intent on regaining strength as quickly as possible.

Ulbar regarded him with open curiosity and then silently watched him throughout the entire meal. That did not bother Thranduil in the slightest. Let him watch.

Let them all watch.

* * *

That afternoon he returned to the gardens. The cave had been carved so that the ceiling was missing almost entirely, allowing the sunlight to lighten the room. It was the brightest place in his underground kingdom, and he has always loved it.

He wasn’t surprised when he had heard quiet Elven steps behind him.

“My King?”

“Yes, Feren? I presume our esteemed ambassador asked to see me?” he ventured a guess.

“He did, my King. He wants to join you in the gardens.”

“Let him,” he ordered without looking at the guard. “And let no one eavesdrop on our conversation, is that clear?”

“Yes, my King.”

He heard the steps retreating then the louder ones, the Man’s ones, could be heard.

“Is being bold a virtue among your people, ambassador?” asked Thranduil sharply, turning back to face the Southron.

The Man’s face showed an apprehension which had not been there before.

“Yes, as a matter of fact it is,” the herald answered slowly, as if treading on a thin ice. “Did I offend you in any way, great king? I assure you-”

Thranduil interrupted him impatiently, “Then I shall be bold with you, Haradrim. You gave me Ar‑Pharazôn’s grimoire on your Emperor’s orders. Did you receive any other order regarding my person? If you cannot share them than say so but do not. Lie. To. Me!” he hissed.

Ulbar blanched as if he was reminded for the first time that it was an immortal, powerful being he had been parleying with.

“I have sworn to obey you and be yours to use and to discard if you ever show the slightest leaning towards the Dark Cult,” the herald answered stiffly.

“And you haven’t said anything before because…?” prompted Thranduil.

“Because I was worried you would misuse me had you known you have the right to do so,” admitted Ulbar and ducked his head in shame.

Thranduil said nothing as he stared at the Man. He suspected something of that ilk but to actually hear it aloud? It shocked him to the core.

The deduction had been easy to make once he had connected all the dots. The Emperor had wanted Thranduil to have Ar-Pharazôn’s grimoire which meant he must have read it at some point. Otherwise how could he have known that the presumed Golden King’s Heir is an Elven king? Or this particular Elvenking, to be precise.

And since the Emperor had known who Thranduil was destined to be then it’s a logical conclusion that the Emperor would have wanted to assure that Ar-Pharazôn’s dream was fulfilled – hence sending his henchmen to convert Thranduil to the Empire’s religion. The Emperor was a zealot, he would gladly sacrifice the whole world if it meant helping his beloved Master, the Dark Lord Morgoth.

Thranduil once again focused on the Man before him. “What have I done to inspire such distrust from you?”

Ulbar looked at him with apprehension. “I haven’t got the best experiences with your race, my Lord,” the herald admitted, and this time, ‘my lord’ hadn’t been used as a figure of speech the diplomacy required of him but an actual title.

“I haven’t got the best experiences with the race of Men as well, so it seems we will both have to prove the other wrong in this regard.”

The Man didn’t seem to be entirely convinced by that, but he relaxed the tiniest bit. “What will you do with me then, my Lord, now that you know of my vow?”

Thranduil’s smile turned sinister, his white teeth showing. The stiffening of the herald’s body proved that the change was visible and had been correctly interpreted.

“Now, my dear servant, I intend you to teach me all the Dark practices you can think of.”

Never in his long life had the Elvenking seen someone so flabbergasted.

“But to perform the Dark rites you would have to become a Dark practitioner! And you are a Light being!” exclaimed the Man.

“Who said I cannot be both?”

Chapter Text

3 years later

Shadows danced on the stone walls of the bathing caves, the torches flickering in the faint wind of early autumn. The air was pungent with the smell of warm earth, fallen leaves and mushrooms, the aroma both fresh and heavy.

The Elvenking of the Woodland Realm bathed alone. Some Elf on duty guarded the caves’ entry, but inside Thranduil was thankfully left alone. He wetted the bathing cloth and started to cleanse himself, wondering at the changes his decision to embrace the Darkness had brought to his body and mind.

The changes of the body were more obvious, being the visible part of the Change. His back, torso and abdomen were littered with scars of a wide variety: there were cuts, burns and stabs, each of them precise and intentionally inflicted. His arms were painted with black tattoos which throbbed with sheer power. Even now, calm and relaxed as he was, he could feel the magic pulsing, twisting and vibrating just under his skin, begging to be released.

In the first weeks after the Change he had been badly tempted to use the new powers, the desire to release the storm raging inside him slowly driving him mad. For a short time he had become a slave to his emotions, reacting with fury and violence at the slightest offence, his patience non-existent and mercy unobtainable. It had been a trial of his willpower which he had failed spectacularly.

Only Ulbar had recognized the signs of power sickness for what they were and had reacted accordingly. The Southron had ordered Thranduil to be completely secluded until he said otherwise and Galion, terrified by the changes in his usual moody but otherwise gracious ruler, had acceded to Man’s wishes.

Thranduil had raged when one morning he had found his chambers closed and guarded, he had demolished his rooms as well as had seriously damaged the doors, to no avail. Only after a couple of days without food and water he had finally succumbed to fatigue, but even in his bed his body had been wrecked with tremors, the magic raging wildly in his veins. The day after Thranduil had collapsed from exhaustion Ulbar had come to his rooms and had started to teach him how to master the new powers which had wreaked havoc on his body and mind.

The crudest and easiest way to resist the Dark magic’s allure was to inflict pain intense enough to provide sufficient distraction. Many of the scars Thranduil bore he had gained these first few months when he had yet to master more sophisticated methods, like tattoo-sealing or spirit walking. His vanity suffered much from such disfigurement but he didn’t regret his decision.

He had read Ar-Pharazôn’s grimoire twice and had memorized each and every ritual and magic spell he had access to, he even had consulted Ulbar on many a night on the dangers of using Dark magic and ways to counter them. Slowly and steadily his power had been growing and now, three years later, Thranduil was getting impatient. He felt ready and well-prepared to try to change the fate of the Middle-Earth.

The question was: did he want to?

Sauron had been defeated, after all, his armies scattered and in disarray. And while other Elven kingdoms had withered and faded to nothingness, Eryn Lasgalen has thrived as never before. Why, in Eru’s name, would he want to change this happy ever after?

Thranduil sighed and finished bathing. He had some serious thinking to do.

* * *

“Is something bothering you, my Lord?” asked Tauriel this evening in his office when she finished giving her report on the borders’ defences. “Please forgive my prying, but you seem awfully absentminded as of late.”

Thranduil hummed in response, his long fingers drumming on the desk while he considered how much to tell her. “What would you do if you had the power to change the past, but with no guarantee it would change the events for the better and not for the worst?” he asked finally.

Tauriel looked at him, amazed. “If I had such power, my Lord, I would use it in a heartbeat”, she answered breathlessly.

“Why? Would you not hesitate, would you not doubt yourself? Are our selfish desires that important that we are allowed to condemn the whole world to fulfil them?”

The Captain’s eyes clouded with either pain or memories. Painful memories, most likely. “Are not our whole lives selfish? We kill to defend our homes and families and in our pride we call it honourable and just. Is there a difference between preventing a loved one’s death and turning back time to do just the same?”

She did not say who she would have saved given the means to do so, but then, she didn’t need to. Thranduil recalled the young dwarven prince she had lost centuries ago well enough not to need any reminders. He knew that Tauriel had never loved again, her heart still torn and bleeding even after all those years.

“Thank you, Captain. Your help is appreciated,” he assured her.

She bowed slightly, then asked: “If I may have a question, my Lord?”

He nodded at her to continue.

“It is not in your nature to wonder about what-ifs so your question is not purely theoretical, is it? Is this the reason you have kept Ulbar close for such a long time? We all wondered what did he do to gain your confidence but we dared not to ask.”

“You are awfully perceptive for someone so young. I shudder to think how clever could you become in another thousand years,” said Thranduil wryly. “Yes, Ulbar is helping me in this... endeavour of mine. But I'm still considering the route I should take, as the changes I intend to make will have far-reaching consequences. Will I dare to risk changing our fate?”

“What is fate but the sum of our deeds?” asked Tauriel philosophically. “My Lord, we are the children of Ilúvatar but we did not witness Ainulindalë when the world itself was created. Even the discord which Morgoth wove into the Music became a part of creation. We cannot judge what is meant to be, we can only live our lives and hope for the best.”

“Again, the wisdom of your words in undeniable,” said Thranduil. “How can I thank you for your advice?”

The look Tauriel gave him was full of deep-buried sorrow. “I can only beg you to save one reckless, bothersome dwarf, my Lord.”

With these words she left, leaving the Elvenking deep in thoughts. Could this be that simple? Love and family above all else?...

He started to wonder what was wrong with the world he now lived in. While Sauron had been defeated, it seemed like nothing had really changed. The Elves have continued to fade and were leaving these shores, even Legolas, his only son, had left him to sail west. It was a decision Thranduil couldn’t understand. Why bother fighting for Middle Earth only to abandon it shortly after? What was the point of such a fight?

Only now did he realise what irritated him the most: the detached, unconcerned attitude of the Elves from the other kingdoms. Elrond and Galadriel had let the dominion of Men over Middle-Earth take place almost without a fight, seeing as they themselves had done nothing to re-establish the position of their race. The Elves were the Firstborn, they had fought with Dragons and Balrogs in the ages past! Why were they mere shadows of the once proud, powerful race?

A plan slowly forming in his mind, Thranduil began to plot.

* * *

The next day he decided to meet with Ulbar in the gardens, a reminiscence of the evening three years ago, when he had decided to become a Dark Practitioner.

The Man had been a stern but patient teacher and strange as it may seem, Thranduil felt that some kind of bond had resulted from these teachings. Ulbar had seen him at his worst: mad with power sickness, overcome with fury and bloodlust, and later bleeding and broken. It was not so much different from the bonds wrought on the battlefield – one cannot fight beside other warrior and not form some kind of kinship. Becoming a Dark Practitioner had been one hell of a battle and the Elvenking decided to let the Man know he appreciated his aid.

“It is good to see you, my friend,” he greeted the Southron, for the first time naming him such.

Ulbar was not impressed: “How am I your friend, my Lord? Once I was just an ambassador from a foreign country, than I became your servant as well as teacher of all things Dark. The ties of duty and faith bind me to you but not those of true friendship. Never in this world would I name an Elf my friend.”

The Elvenking looked at the man, surprised by such brutal honesty and the strength of his enmity. “I have never asked you what happened in the past to kindle such hatred towards my race in you.”

“It is not important now, my Lord. I will do my duty and serve you to the best of my abilities until you release me. You need not to worry about my past experiences influencing me,” the Southron assured stiffly.

“And yet they are influencing you,” countered Thranduil. “You deny me your friendship because of whatever happened in the past. Ulbar, I do not ask this to cause you pain, but because I need to understand. What happened to you?”

Being asked so directly, Ulbar wasn’t so keen on refusing to say. He sighed tiredly and his shoulders slumped, but he answered nonetheless: “In the war between the Haradwaith Empire and the Reunited Kingdom, the Elves of Rivendell sided with the latter. They captured me, they tortured me and left me to die. Despite their best efforts I managed to survive. I have hated them ever since.”

“You are no stranger to pain, I have witnessed it many times now. How could torture influence you so much?”

The Southron looked at him with ire. "I was sixteen at that time and not yet a Dark Practitioner, much less someone used to pain!” he spat. “My very first scars were made by their hands! It was war – I would understand if they killed me on spot, I was their enemy and they were mine. But to torture a boy? What kind of dishonourable creature does that? And they weren’t even torturing me for information! They asked no questions, they were only glad that they had someone to inflict pain on!”

The usually collected man was literally shaking from anger, hatred and the remembered pain. No matter how incredulous the story may have seemed, Thranduil had no choice but to believe it. No one, no matter how skilled in the matters of subterfuge and deception, could fake such strong emotions so well.

“Very well. I can see that being here, amongst my people, is neither fair nor kind to you. Hear me then: I, Thranduil, King of the last Elven Realm in Middle-Earth, release you from any ties to me and mine, be they ties of blood or honour. You have broken no oath, betrayed no promise, and you are free to leave my Kingdom in peace. For your help I swear to always repay in kind, in this world or another, in times past and present, this I swear as the Golden King’s Heir, the destined Key to the Door of Night.”

At the beginning of Thranduil’s speech Ulbar’s face showed an joyous astonishment, but hearing Elvenking’s other titles – taken from Ar-Pharazôn’s grimoire – it turned as white as a sheet.

“Do not use the titles you have no right to!” the man hissed.

It was Thranduil’s turn to be confused: “No right? What are you talking about? Was this not your mission to present me with Ar-Pharazôn’s grimoire so that I could learn about my destiny?”

Ulbar’s face crumbled as he came to a terrible realisation. He fell to his knees and begged: “Master, please believe me, I did not know. No one but the Holy Emperor and his royal family were allowed to read the grimoire. O sweet Darkness, what have I done?”

“Ulbar, stop it,” Thranduil said, trying to make head or tail of the situation, as never before had he seen this proud, strong man so distraught. “I thought that me becoming a Dark Practitioner and learning the Dark Magic was your Emperor’s plan all along. Why else would he give me the book that was your people legacy for centuries if not for the greater gain, meaning to convince me to fulfil Ar‑Pharazôn’s predictions?”

The Man was still shaking like a leaf but he tried to reign in his emotions with visible strain: “Master, I beg your forgiveness. I was never told the reason behind my journey here or why I was ordered to be your servant if you ever showed an inclination to join the Shadow Cult. I thought it was my punishment, that I have done something to deserve the Holy Emperor’s anger and this was my penance. The Emperor knew how the Elves hurt me in the past, I thought it just a cruel punishment… I would have never acted so headstrong had I known that I owe you my allegiance. I shamed myself and I can only beg your mercy.”

While Ulbar’s repentance was painfully sincere, Thranduil liked him better when the Man was his usual proud, collected self. “Get up,” he ordered more sharply than he intended. “I do not need a snivelling slave but a companion worth my trust and attention. Now, would you like to leave Eryn Lasgalen now that you are free to do so? Nothing binds you to me now.”

The Man got up slowly. “I am disgraced, Master,” he admitted. “I do not deserve to be in your presence any longer.”

Thranduil suppressed an exasperated sigh, his patience waning. “I did not ask what you deserve but where your desires lie,” he explained, trying to rein in his temper. “Earlier you made it quite clear that you do not share my view on the rapport I thought we had. I've never realized that you helped me only out of sense of duty and I regret that I have not freed you of your obligation sooner. If you decided to stay now it has to be out of your own free will. I will not have it otherwise.”

“You would accept me still?” asked Ulbar incredulously.

This time Thranduil didn’t manage to restrain himself and groaned loudly. “Are all your people this obstinate or is it only you?” he asked, feeling the familiar throbbing in the temples, meaning he had to calm down if he didn’t want to spend the night nursing migraine.

“I am yours to command, my King,” swore Ulbar, looking at him with such devotion it was almost scary.

Well, if he wanted to become a prophesied Dark hero of the legends he needed to get used to fanaticism, right?

“Come, Ulbar. We have work to do,” the Elvenking ordered, feeling a surge of both apprehension and excitement.

He was going to change the history.

Chapter Text

The whole world seemed as if it was holding breath in anticipation of what was to come. Thranduil felt both impatient and nervous at the same time.

He had been studying Dark magic for years now. Even the mechanics of time traveling seemed so familiar to him that he could almost recite the theory of it in his sleep. He had thought of every possible scenario: the spell will fail and nothing will happen; the spell will end in success but he will travel not to his destined time but somewhere (sometime?) else; or he will succeed but will get injured, even mortally, in the process.

Maybe he will remain in his own body, or maybe he will take over his younger counterpart's – he didn't know. The book was not specific on this particular subject. But it mattered not – he couldn't care less for the body his fëa was going to inhabit. The Elves' souls burned brightly no matter their vessel.

He wondered if the Dark rituals he had been performing for years now had left any stains on his immortal soul. He hoped not, as he himself didn't feel tainted in any way. On the contrary, for the first time in his long life he felt whole, like a glass of water filled to the very brim. He was a complete being, living in the world of both Light and Darkness, as no creature before him.

He had thought long about giving a farewell speech or some last, tearful blessings to his people, but in the end he had decided not to. 

The first to sacrifice himself was Ulbar, his eyes of a true believer shining brightly as he buried a knife in his own body. In his last breath, he urged: “Into Darkness, my lord. Into Darkness...”, bloody bubbles forming on his slowly cooling lips. Thranduil looked at his dead – servant? Advisor? Companion? And he couldn't help but feel some regret.

There had always been a barrier between him and Ulbar. At first, there had been a mutual animosity and lack of trust. Later it had been replaced by fanatical faith and devotion, which had done nothing to breach the gap between them but had widened it even more. Ironically, Thranduil had been closer to befriend an enemy than he was to befriend a worshiper.

And now, the gap between them was as infinite as the death itself.

Thranduil looked at Tauriel, who looked impossibly old with an aura of serenity surrounding her.

“Remember your promise to me, my Lord,” she whispered as she too ended her life with one quick, sure stroke. Thranduil caught her falling body and lay it on the ground with gentleness that surprised even himself. Deep inside he felt painful, heart-wrenching sorrow that threatened to overwhelm his whole being but after a short moment of grief it was burned away by the merciless fire of sacrificial magic.

The power burned inside and outside of him, licking at his guts and dancing on his skin. His tattoos seemed hotter than branding iron as they absorbed as much magic as they could. But even with the added power of two sacrificed lives, he still felt chains of time and space around him, choking and suffocating him.

Even now, he wasn't free.

He allowed the heat of his power to burst and consume everything around him. With a heartache so great he thought he wouldn't be able to endure it, he allowed the flames to spread. His woods, his beautiful woods were burning, and his people were burning with them. He heard agonized screams and finally understood what Ar-Pharazôn must have felt when he had doomed his folk to die.

With the death of every Elf his heart broke anew, and his power grew. He could no longer distinguish between magic and madness because for him, they were one. As the fire spread, his fëa rose high above the ground, no longer chained to the charred and unrecognizable body that had been its vessel for thousands of years.

His unrelenting spirit traveled South-East, seeking, searching. He was drawn to the palace of white stone, painted red in the rays of the setting sun. Inside he saw a man on the throne of skins and bones, whose eyes saw him even though no one else did.

“I salute you, Elvenking” the man said. “I am the Holy Emperor of the Haradwaith Empire, but you... You are the leaf that flows against the current. What need do you have of me?”

Thranduil, lacking lips to articulate his demand, spoke only in his mind:

Power. I need more power!

The Emperor looked hesitant for a moment, then nodded: “Very well.” He whispered to his guards and Thranduil could only wait, consumed by thirst of power and unable to satisfy his need.

Soon – but not soon enough for the Elvenking's aching spirit – the guards came back with a brood of women and children in tow. One after another, they fell under Emperor's knife and Thranduil trembled in delight after each sweet death. He felt so full of power that had he still owned a body, he would surely burst.

When the Emperor looked at the Elvenking again, he seemed like he had aged at least a decade. Gone was the proud posture and the strength of spirit. His voice broke as he said: “I gave you the lives of my wives and children, may the Darkness receive them gently. Is this enough for you?”

More more more more more more, Thranduil's spirit chanted, his being clothed now in Shadow and Flame, visible to everyone.

The great ruler of Men seemed to shrink in himself, before he straightened with the steel resolve: “So be it.”

The Emperor fell to his knees and with him, his court. He started to speak, his prayer painfully familiar: “I call to you, Everlasting Darkness. Receive my prayers with grace and allow my lesser blood to be sacrificed for your pleasure. I seek no glory, desire no honours, await no compensation. Take me and break me, twist me and destroy me, until I am no more.” He raised the bloodied knife again, this time towards his own self.

“I call to you, Everlasting Darkness,” intoned the Emperor one last time, his voice hoarse but firm. “Thank you for all the blessings you bestowed upon me, for the pain you brought me, for the strength you drained from me. Now, as my time comes, receive my soul with mercy.”

The knife found its goal and the gathered men screamed as their beloved Emperor, the Divine Sun and the Blessed Moon of the race of Men, fell to the ground. Many followed him in death, their despair greater then their will of life.

But Thranduil couldn't see it anymore. He fell into a vortex of both space and time, the world changing before his eyes, spinning, endlessly spinning.

He was cold and he was hot.

He died a lot, over and over again, until the pain of dying transformed into the pain of rebirth.

With a scream, he woke up, heart hammering in his chest.

A young Elf burst into the room, asking: “My prince, what happened?”

And Thranduil cried, because he hadn't been called a prince since his father's death.

I made it. By everything that is holy, I made it...

Chapter Text

To travel through time's gates you must sever all the ties that bind you, end all the bonds that shackle you to this world. It is a painful process that will cause you much heartbreak but it cannot be helped. In this life or another, we are destined to suffer – that is true for all creatures of Arda, mortal or not. You must be prepared to carry out our plans no matter the cost. And the cost... it will be deadly.

It is a bitter legacy that I leave to you. The sacrifice of my people may or may not be enough to carry you through all the ages that divide us. But one thing I am sure of: my end will be your beginning. We can never meet in person – not even if we sacrificed the whole world and burned it on one great pyre, we will not see each other until the end of all days.

This is why I write these words to you, my very last words: serve no one but yourself. Abandon all illusions of right and wrong, and be your own master. Even if you decide to tear this book into pieces and never dabble into the Dark magic, so be it. If you decide to have all the world kneeling at your feet, even better.

It is my last day on this miserable world. I am going to make it memorable for ages to come.

The question is: what are you going to do with all your days?

The grimoire of Ar-Pharazôn, the Golden King of Anadûn ê

Thranduil's cheeks were wet from tears of both overwhelming relief and excruciating anguish at the same time. Relief that his plan had worked and he was now back in time, able to bend and twist the fates of the world as he sees fit, and anguish for all his (past? future?) people’s suffering that had made it possible. Their fate weighted down on his shoulders and it was almost too heavy a burden to bear as he moaned loudly, unable to contain his grief. But before he had a chance to regain his composure, he felt his fëa being drawn to the Unseen world as he was forced to witness yet another gruesome event within his own mind.

He saw an island being swallowed by vengeful ocean, the people inhabiting the island seeming frail in their mortality. Fragile, even, like a porcelain cup that could be shattered with one careless gesture and could never be make whole again. He saw the fall of Númenor, an unstoppable, unrelenting death brought by the angered beings that were supposed to guide and protect both the First- and Secondborn: the Valar and Eru himself.

That one vision, this singular moment in time made him realize how fleeting life was, be it elven or human. When put against powers of nature, fueled by Eru's merciless judgement, all struggles seemed to be in vain. How could they even begin to compete against such a horrific power? Would they always be second to higher powers, be it Eru or the Valar, forever subject to their will like eternal slaves?

This was what Thranduil was fighting against. The subjugation, the dependency, the harsh judgement always looming over the horizon. He did not fear death anymore, but he dreaded what comes after: his fëa being forced into Mandos halls while he did not feel that the Valar had any right to judge him. Númenor’s utter destruction felt like a betrayal that left sour feeling in his mouth and he shall not swallow it down. If anything, it only steeled his resolve.

He came to his senses slowly, blinking as he tried to once again focus on reality. The doors opened and two Elves burst in, looking frantic, one of them was an Elf that Thranduil didn't have any problems remembering: it was Oropher, his father, and once upon a time, also his king. And wasn’t it an interesting conundrum: how was Thranduil going to fall back into the role of a crown prince, if he had been a king for a whole age already?

Shortly behind the king trailed the frightened servant, the same one that he saw a few moments before.

 “What is it, my son?” asked Oropher worriedly, taking in Thranduil’s sweat- and tearstained face. “Did something happen?”

And how the time-traveler should respond to this seemingly easy question? Maybe: ‘Yes, father, you failed as a king as you allowed a two-third of our people to die in the battle with Sauron, and then I burned the rest of them to ash just so I have a slight chance to correct your, and everyone else’s mistakes?’

 “Where am I?” he asked instead, trying to appear confounded and not even having to fake it, as his head was spinning with all the possible future paths unveiling right before his mind’s eyes.

The worry lines deepened on Oropher’s face as he answered: “You’re in your rooms in the royal wing of Amon Lanc. Where else would you be?”

Where else indeed!

Amon Lanc, the Woodland’s capital and the Silvan Elves’ stronghold that had been (will be?) abandoned and later turned into a ghastly shell of its own self by Sauron, disguising himself as the Necromancer. Amon Lanc, which had once been the symbol of the Wood Elves’ weakness and inability to stand their ground and defend their own, but now, in this new time, it need not to become such.

Thranduil was saved from answering as the whole palace shook, a lone cup falling off the bedside cupboard and breaking into pieces.

“What in the Valar’s name…” Oropher exclaimed loudly in surprise, as Thranduil recalled the dreadful cause of these tremors. Should he reveal his foreknowledge? But what other option did he have? After living for millennia and experiencing the wars and struggles of three ages already he knew he was unable to fit into his younger-self life seamlessly without rising any suspicion. 

“The world itself is rearranging beneath our feet, father. Númenor has sank beneath the sea and Aman is no longer a part of Arda,” explained Thranduil, as he vividly remembered similar tremors happening the first time around. “I’m only thankful that we are not living anywhere near the coast, as the consequences of the changing of the world are surely more grave nearer the sea, rather than mere earth tremors that we just now experienced.” This seemed to shock Oropher into brief muteness.

“How? How would you know that, my prince?” asked the young servant, his eyes huge in trepidation.

“I have seen it in my dreams,” said Thranduil vaguely, deciding to disguise his foreknowledge as a clairvoyance of sorts. Better to appear as a different person due to visions, rather than trying and failing to emulate his younger self, which in his heart he knew he could never be, not anymore.

“Dreams!” scoffed Oropher dismissively. “As if they would be of any use to us! No, ‘tis was surely caused by collapse in the mountains, or something of that ilk. Also, there has been no Seer in our ancestry, so no worries in this regard,” he patted Thranduil’s shoulder in what was supposed to be a comforting manner. “Servant – Idhrenon, wasn’t it? Clean up this mess at once,” the king ordered, pointing to the pieces of the broken cup and leaving the room in quick strides.

Thranduil stared after him, incredulously. Of all the possible outcomes he had imagined after revealing his foreknowledge, such blatant dismissal was not on the list.

The servant started cleaning up the room, and once done, he cleared his throat quietly.

“My prince, do you…” his words halted.

“Yes, Idhrenon?” prompted Thranduil, remembering the servant’s name that his father had mentioned in passing.

“Do you believe in what your dreams have shown you?” asked the younger elf, shuffling his feet awkwardly, then hurriedly adding: “Please accept my humble apologies, if it is not my place to ask.”

Thranduil suddenly felt exhausted both in body and mind. He accomplished the impossible by travelling through space and time, but deep in his bones he felt this was only the beginning. “Yes,” he answered finally. “All that I mentioned previously have already came to pass. This was not a premonition of a future that may or may not happen, but a vision of the current events. I would not demean the multiple lives that were lost today by spouting lies.”

“What will happen now?”

“Now, Idhrenon, we must face the day,” said Thranduil with a wry smile, though he suspected it came out more as a scowl. “Please find me a worn out, comfortable outfit, suitable for training. Some work out would not be amiss.” Especially since he felt more like a newborn kitten than an Elven prince, but he did not mention that to the servant. He hated being weak, but he hated showing his weakness even more.

“At once, my prince,” the young Elf perked up, apparently happy to be given a task and not being forced to think about more grievous matters.

As he was dressing up and preparing for the day, Thranduil realized that he did not remember what his younger self’s imminent duties were. While he recalled those in a vague way, he did not known the exact plans, the people which he was supposed to meet and such. He wondered for a moment how to ask to be reminded of his duties without revealing how deep his memory gap was, when his servant realized his absentmindedness.

“What is the matter, my prince? Are your visions causing you distress still?” asked the younger Elf, his worry apparent on his face.

Thranduil was glad for being handed an excuse to inquire about his plans for the day, but he was also slightly touched by the amount of care his servant was showing toward him. As he did not remember Idhrenon from his younger days, this was somewhat troubling; had he been so conceited in the past that he had not cared enough to know more of the people who had served him?

“I feel so ingrained in my dreams that my grasp on the here and now is somewhat lacking,” explained Thranduil. “The visions are clouding my mind so that the simplest things like my plans for the day are much harder to recall. Would you mind assisting me until I feel better rooted to the present? Unless you have other duties to see to.”

The servant shook his head vehemently. “No, my prince, as your personal aide my duties lie solely with your person. If you need me to keep track of the meetings and such, I would be happy to assist you,” he assured.

“Do you know if there is anything specific I planned for today?” inquired Thranduil.

“For today, no, but tomorrow you have a meeting with the lore master, and in three days there is a swordsmanship contest you wanted to compete in.”

‘Knowledge and might it is, then,’ thought Thranduil. ‘I will definitely need both in the days to come.’

Chapter Text

The week following his landing in the past went quickly, too quickly for Thranduil’s comfort. As he worked on regaining his spiritual and bodily strength, he realized how dreadfully unprepared Amon Lanc was for any kind of warfare. While the citadel that housed the royal family was circled by solid stone walls, the rest of the city was entirely unprotected. The Silvan Elves’ homes were integrated with the forest that surrounded them and while the trees could be considered a barrier of sorts against war machines or even cavalry, they did not provide any defense otherwise. Any considerable army of orcs or men could seize the city within hours without much struggle. And while he knew that the Wood Elves longed for the forest and could not imagine living in halls of stone like Naugrim did, that did not excuse the carelessness of leaving their capital unprotected against an invasion.

And that is why he was currently having a heated discussion with his father and his advisors.

“We need to muster up an army and prepare for the upcoming war!” Thranduil tried to reason with Oropher.

“What war? We do not have any enemy on these shores, except maybe from these traitorous Noldor,” the king raised from his throne angrily. “Cease your war-mongering at once, son!”

“Do not call me a warmonger when Sauron’s presence is once more threatening the people of Middle Earth,” hissed Thranduil, rearing like a snake. “He may be weak now, but it will not last forever. If we do not act now, within a century or two he will regain his strength and pose a threat too powerful to contemplate.”

“There has been no sightings of Sauron in Middle Earth in decades! I do not believe in a word that you said about the fall of Númenor and Sauron’s return to these shores. This is too outlandish a tale. Whatever sick visions your mind has produced, I will not have them in my court! Leave my sight and do not come back until you have regained your senses,” ordered Oropher, his face furious.

Feeling sick to his stomach by his father’s blindness and thoughtlessness, Thranduil turned around and marched out of the throne room without another word. Fuming inside, he went to the training halls to relieve some of the tension he could feel in his stiff shoulders. He took his favorite twin blades and allowed the familiar moves to calm his mind. When he let himself stop, the sun was setting on the horizon and he was drenched in sweat from head to toe.

“That was quite an impressive training, my prince,” he heard from behind him.

He recognized the voice instantly. It was Haedirnor, a Sindar survivor of Doriath and sword master at his fathers’ court. He was older than Thranduil (at least in this age - not counting Thranduil future/past experiences) and widely respected for his calm exterior. He was also one of Oropher’s staunchest supporters, which made him somewhat of an adversary to Thranduil’s cause.

“Did you come here to gloat over my banishment from the court, Haedirnor? Or maybe to try to convince me that there is no war looming over the horizon? Frankly speaking, I do not have patience for either,” snapped Thranduil as he turned around to face him.

The older elf regained him dispassionately. “You realize that I am the sword master and this is my domain, don’t you? You are not the only Elda that finds solace in sparring, prince Thranduil, as you are also not the only person that has our people’s wellbeing at heart, which you often seem to forget.”

Thranduil bristled for a moment, before admitting to himself that there might be some truth to Haedirnor’s words, loath as he was to acknowledge it. He took a deep breath and tried to calm himself, which came to him harder than usually. It took him a moment to realize the root cause: he was missing his tattoos, and he longed for the Dark Rites that he dared not to perform in this timeline yet. Too many servants everywhere, and not enough privacy to his liking.

“I apologize for snapping at you, it is not your person that I am truly angry with,” he said stiffly, unused as he was to apologizing to anyone. “And I thank you for seeing that I truly care for our people’s fate.”

Some of the coolness that the other Elf projected earlier melted at Thranduil’s words.

“I have never doubted that for a second, my prince. It is your methods that I find questionable,” before Thranduil could react at such audacity, the sword master raised his hand and added: “No, please, let me finish. Both yours and your father’s tempers are legendary. The two of you are equally strong-headed and stubborn to a fault, especially when convinced you are in the right. But Oropher is also jealous of your charisma, and he feels that his kingship is threatened whenever you act as if you were opposing him. This causes him to lash out at you rather then think rationally.”

That did sound probable, Thranduil admitted to himself.

“What would you suggest, then?” he asked. “Should I do nothing and let our people fall due to one man’s stubbornness and refusal to see the truth?”

“Do you truly believe that Númenor sank into the sea and that Sauron is now on the loose?” asked Haedirnor instead.

“I do not need to believe it. I know it,” stressed Thranduil with as much certainty as he could put into words.

The sword master’s shoulders sagged. “Then dark times are truly ahead of us,” he sighed. “I believe you, but my previous words still stand. The king will be more prone to heed the warnings if he does not feel so pressured. I would suggest you leave the city for a while, maybe join a patrol or something in this vein? This would give both the king and yourself the time needed to cool off. In the meantime, mayhap we receive news from other kingdoms regarding Númenor’s fall and your words will gain more credibility then.”

That sounded like an exceptionally good advice, and Thranduil knew it. The more pressure he put on his father, the more Oropher resisted. If Thranduil wasn’t so reigned by his frustration and desperation to change the previous timeline’s wrongdoings, he would have realized this himself much sooner.

He bowed slightly to the older Elf in gratitude. “Thank you for your advice. I agree that some time apart may do myself and my father some good.”

The sword master’s grim face lightened up a bit at his words. “I am glad to hear that! Tis good that we have received your warnings now, which might have bought us the time needed to prepare sufficiently for the upcoming conflict, but it is not wise to act rashly. Your visions alone will not suffice to convince the king. However, as soon as we hear any news confirming your words, I will advise Oropher to strengthen our army and train more recruits. You have my word on that.”

“Thank you, master Haedirnor. Your support of my cause will be invaluable,” said Thranduil sincerely. “Now please excuse me, I have a travel to prepare for. I shall be back within a few weeks’ time, and I will not be travelling alone, so please assure my father that he will have his heir back soon enough.”

“I will. I wish you safe journey, prince Thranduil.”

As he absentmindedly exchanged farewells with the sword master, Thranduil already had his mind on leaving Amon Lanc, and a plan began to slowly form in his mind.

Maybe he will not be returning that quickly, after all.

* * *

“Pack, my prince? You’re leaving the city?” inquired Idhrenon when he asked the servant to pack him some clothes and provisions suitable for travelling in the wilds.

“We both are, unless you have other commitments,” said Thranduil offhandedly as he looked through his travel bag. Change of clothes, checked. Rope and flint, checked. Some money in different currencies, checked. Finally, a set of wickedly sharp knives – also checked. After a moment he also decided to take with him one set of elegant robes, just in case he ever needed to engage in some diplomatic activities, in which a sign of rank would be required.

When he looked up, he realized that the young Elf was still staring at him, dumbfounded.

“Apparently, it is frowned upon for the heir apparent to the throne to be travelling alone, even for a short trip, so we will be travelling together,” explained Thranduil patiently.

“Please forgive my bluntness, but what use will I be to you in the wilderness? You are much better fighter than I am,” admitted Idhrenon. “I am a simple servant, my prince, not a warrior.”

“Can you ride a horse?”

“Yes, my prince.”

“And do you wish to travel with me for a little while?”

“Of course, my prince!” the young Elf assured, looking less stunned and more thrilled with each answer.

“Then you are coming with me. Do not worry, you will be back home in no time,” assured Thranduil. “Do you need to notify anyone of your absence? Your family, perhaps?”

The young Elf shook his head, looking slightly dejected but valiantly trying to hide it. “I have no one left in Middle Earth that I could call close kin, my prince,” he admitted.

“I am sorry to hear that,” offered Thranduil after a moment of awkward silence. “Sometimes I feel that we Eldar are all survivors of all kinds of disasters and tragedies, but somehow we learned to live in spite of it.”

It was a bittersweet realization that he’d had in the Third Age after the Battle of Five Armies, when he had again been forced to pick up the pieces of his people after yet another fight. Unfortunately, this had turned out to be a recurring theme of his life. That is why he was here, in the past, to turn the tides in his favor.

Chapter Text

With every day away from the citadel and deeper into the forest Thranduil felt wilder, in a way that nature is wild, dangerous and soothing at the same time, gentle but deadly at times. Away from the pressure of his father's court and the false image of his own person that he needed to project, he felt as if a burden was lifted from his shoulders. He had done what he could to warn his people of the imminent doom and to convince them to start preparing for war. His duty in this regard was done and he was now free to pursue his own agenda, which was to research the roots of the Shadow Cult and search for more Dark practitioners.

There was only the matter of his companion, who had followed him out of displaced loyalty, not knowing of Thranduil's dark legacy. Unwilling as he was to dismiss a loyal servant without revealing the true purpose for that, he could not afford to continue this journey with an infidel. He only took the younger Elf with him as to not arouse suspicion that his travelling alone would surely cause.

"Idhrenon, you are sworn to obey me, are you not?" he inquired after they have set the camp in a small forest clearing in the late afternoon. It was the third day since leaving the keep.

"I am, my prince, as per king's Oropher orders," the servant assured, looking as if he wanted to salute, even though he was not a soldier by any stretch of imagination.

"And you will obey my every command, no matter what would I request of you?" he pressed further.

"Yes, my prince," Idhrenon confirmed solemnly.

"Then I want you to leave me and head back to Amon Lanc alone."

His servant looked half-stricken, half-betrayed at that. "What have I done to displease you so, to make you dismiss me in this manner?"

"I have... a task of sorts that I need to accomplish, and it requires utmost secrecy,” Thranduil tried to explain without revealing too much.

"I can keep your secrets, my prince, you mustn't doubt me," Idhrenon protested. Thranduil felt his resolve to dismiss the younger Elf cracking a tiniest bit. Idhrenon must have seen his internal struggle and pleaded: "I beseech you, my prince, let me stay with you. I will swear any oath you demand as long as I can stay in your presence."

"Do not offer this lightly," warned Thranduil. "The oath that I may ask of you will require you to put my orders above all else, even above your faith or your loyalty to king Oropher. I do not want to put you in such a difficult position and demand you to put one sovereign over another, but if you were to follow me, I will."

Idhrenon faltered, hearing that. "King Oropher does not know of your plans, does he?" he asked quietly.

"No, he does not," admitted Thranduil. "This is my journey, and mine alone, a trip into darkness if you will. If you decide to follow me, it is for life, there will be no turning back from this. And if I were to ever doubt your loyalty, I will struck you down as you stand, be sure of it. One Elf's life is not worth undermining my goals.”

Idhrenon blanched at that and instinctively took a step back.

"Finally you are starting to see me for who I am, and I am glad for it. Better to start fearing me now than follow a false illusion of a benevolent lord that I am not,” said Thranduil, not unkindly. “Go home, child. This path that I tread, it is not for your kind."

"And what kind is that?" pressed Idhrenon stubbornly, though the paleness of his face clearly showed his unease.

"A creature of Light," said Thranduil simply.

The younger Elf swallowed thickly. "I am a simple Silvan Elf who has never seen the light of Valinor, and who has never witnessed the true darkness of Morgoth or his creations. How can I know what I am if I was never given a chance to be anything else than a servant for those who are more powerful than I?" he asked bitterly. "I am not strong enough to be a warrior, nor am I perceptive or wise enough to be an advisor or a scholar. I was only ever good at serving, but for years it made me invisible in the eyes of all the lords of Amon Lanc, yourself included. Only after your visions of Númenor you have truly seen me. Whatever magic or power has changed you so, it cannot be altogether evil. I would rather serve this new you than another lord who forgets my name."

Thranduil closed his eyes for a moment, feeling both sorrow and anger at himself for being so conceited in the past that without even meaning to he had made his servant doubt his worth to such extent.

"Very well, if this is truly what you wish for," he conceded finally. "But before you swear your loyalty to me, is there anything that you would ask of me? I will not have you bitter over serving me without any consideration to your own wishes or ambitions."

The young Elf wondered for a while, then asked hesitantly: "This freedom of speech in your presence, is it limited to this moment only? Will I ever again be able to speak my mind so freely without the fear of angering you?"

"I expect you to be courteous at all times, but whenever we are alone you have my permission to speak honestly. However, do bear in mind that while I am open to discussion, if I give you a direct order, I expect to be obeyed without delay. I do not want you to be a mindless slave, but a follower questioning orders is a recipe for disaster, especially in battle," warned Thranduil.

"I understand," said Idhrenon, still pale but looking more sure of himself than Thranduil could remember ever seeing him. Maybe there was more to this young Elf than meets the eye?

"Are you ready for your vow, then? If you are truly determined to swear fealty to me above anyone and anything else, kneel. If you are not fully committed, leave me now.”

The younger Elf looked conflicted for a moment and then knelt before Thranduil, his eyes expectant and without a doubt, even if slightly fearful, but that was to be expected. After all, fear of the unknown is only natural for all beings of Arda, Thranduil mused absentmindedly as he pondered on the exact wording of the oath he wanted to extract from his first true follower in this new world.

“Do you forfeit all oaths and duties that you have taken in the past, and consider them null and void no matter their receiver, be it First- or Secondborn, mortal or immortal, Maia or Vala, so that you are free to swear fealty to me without any stipulations or reservations?” he asked finally.

“I do.”

“Do you then swear to follow me, through whatever means and to whatever end, and to serve me faithfully, diligently and without deceit of any kind, be it in words or deeds, through action or inaction, until I release you from this oath?”

“I swear,” croaked Idhrenon.

“Take off your tunic and give me your forearm, then,” ordered Thranduil, taking out a short dagger.

The servant obeyed hurriedly and did not so much as hiss when his skin was cut slightly, a small trail of blood dripping from the shallow wound. Thranduil licked the red droplets without hesitation, feeling the heady rush of the Dark magic flowing through his veins, and the elevation it brought nearly overwhelmed him. This was what he was missing during the long week in Amon Lanc when he almost trapped himself in trying – and failing miserably – to pretend to be no different than other Elves.

“Through your own blood I bind you to this oath. It can never be broken or forfeited, until the end of all times when the world itself is unmade. You will never again be able to swear your loyalty to another as from now on your fate is forever bound with mine. Rise, now,” he ordered and Idhrenon complied dazedly. “How are you feeling?”

“I… I felt the oath coming into life. Was this true magic?” the younger Elf asked in wonder.

“Yes, it was magic that comes from the blood itself of all living creatures. As you just had a chance to witness, I am a Dark mage and you will be seeing more of the Dark rites during our travels. The vow might have taken some of you strength but it is only temporary and you should feel better in the morning,” he assured his servant-turned-follower.

“Would you tell me more about these Dark rites? Is this the same magic that Sauron uses?” Idhrenon asked, looking clearly discomfited by the prospect as he busied himself with bandaging his hurt forearm.

Thranduil sat near the fire, trying to find a comfortable position that would be suitable for a longer explanation.

“In general, yes, but there are also some notable differences. The Dark magic can take many forms, but at the crux of each rite lies sacrifice. If that sacrifice is willing, the effect of the ritual will be long-lasting and will not fade with time. Sauron, a vile creature that he is, warped Dark magic to such an extent that he incorporates unwilling sacrifices in his rituals, killing and torturing both enemies and slaves alike. It gives him huge amounts of power, but it quickly fades. That is why he always searches for new victims.”

Idhrenon joined him near the fire and he stared unblinkingly into the flames for a moment.

“So it is the fact that I joined you willingly that makes the difference between good and evil magic?” he asked finally.

“It might be one of the factors, yes, but the distinction between right and wrong is not as simple as that,” admitted Thranduil. “After all, it is not only the source of power that is important, but also what it is used for. No matter the amount of trust and loyalty you might feel for me, if I ordered you to do something despicable like killing a child for no other reason than for my own wicked pleasure, that would be wrong of me. And no matter if you complied and killed that child, going against every moral code that you have, or refused to do so and broke your oath in the process, having to make such a decision would destroy you. That is why I hope I will never have to ask of you anything that you are not ready to give. Vow or no vow, you are no mere puppet on a string, I hope you realize that.”

“Thank you for that, my lord,” said the younger Elf, then blushed in embarrassment. “I apologize, but calling you 'my prince' when Oropher is no longer my sworn king does not seem to fit anymore. Or would you prefer to be called differently?”

“Both 'lord' or 'liege' are acceptable. Now, let us rest, as we’re travelling tomorrow as soon as the sun rises.”

Later in the night, in the grey area of resting but not sleeping yet, Thranduil wondered if his decision to accept Idhrenon’s oath was the correct one. His new follower was young yet, unused to true hardships. On the other hand, he did not have any kin so that would suggest he was no stranger to sorrow. He had also shown a remarkable open-mindedness in learning more of the Dark magic, so that was always a good sign. But whatever the outcome, Thranduil was glad for not having to hide his true nature anymore.

Chapter Text

The following days passed without any disturbance as they left the forest and traveled through seemingly endless and scarcely inhabited plains, slowly but surely heading south. Idhrenon had been mostly silent, his focus turned inwards as he pondered on the recent changes to his life. Thranduil hadn't berated him for that and allowed him some time to digest it all in peace. Since the silence between them was of reflective sort, rather than heavy or uncomfortable, he had decided to let it be.

It also had an unexpected benefit of allowing him to focus on his own task, which was to search for servants of Darkness within the Unseen world, the spirit realm. He had already mastered this skill back in his own time, but the key to finding other people's spirits while they dreamt was to actually know enough of them to identify them within the shadow world. That was why it was considered unwise to reveal one’s true name to mages or wizards alike.

Thranduil only knew of two notable Black Númenóreans of these times: Fuinur, the Dark Marshal of the united forces of Umbar and Harad, as well as Herumor, lord of the city of Umbar, and commander of its naval forces. As per the archives that had been available to him in Fourth Age, Fuinur had been considered the crueler one as he inspired fear in foes and friends alike, he had been also rumored to be deeply devoted to the Dark Cult. Herumor on the other hand had been often described as more reasonable of them, however – as per the records – he had also been susceptible to corruption, if bribe was high enough.

In the end, Thranduil decided to contact Fuinur. While he was no stranger to greed, he had learned to be wary of it after the whole Arkenstone fiasco. He would rather deal with a bloodthirsty zealot than a corrupted noble.

Assuming a meditative state he allowed himself to slip into dream-like state while retaining his consciousness. The world around him grew dark and unfocused, enclosed in thick grey fog. He turned his mind’s eye to Idhrenon, whose sleeping silhouette burned with a bright, unyielding light of the Eldar. The light was mostly undiminished except for a dark red spot, which was how the vow had materialized in the spirit realm, he realized.

Taking his eyes off Idhrenon, the Elvenking focused on the task at hand. Through shadows and mists of this dreamlike world he travelled far into the south, his spirit moving over huge distances within a blink of an eye. He saw his destination clearly, the feeling of a dark, malicious power enticing him closer. Amid hundreds of tents there was one that interested him the most, the one that housed Harad's warlord. Thranduil went inside and he focused on his Dark powers, empowered by Idhrenon's blood oath.

"Fuinur, Deep Shadow, I call you by your true name. My will binds yours, your dreams belong to me. Heed my call or be trapped in this world forever," he intoned, forcing the man’s spirit out of his still sleeping body.

"Who dares to challenge the champion of Darkness?" hissed the man, enraged.

"I am the Lord of Twilight, and this is my domain."

"Is it? We shall see. To me you seem rather like a filthy Elf!"

The Black Númenórean surged, armed with a long blade that appeared out of the void, his moves quick as thunder and just as deadly. Thranduil answered without hesitation, twin swords made of pure darkness blocking the attack with a hollow sound. Each blow dealt by the Dark Marshall was met halfway by the black blades, the screeching of their unearthly metal resounding in the shadow world.

While at first the fighters seemed evenly matched, with each block Thranduil felt elevation coursing through his spirit, a dark delight making him both powerful and bold. When they crossed their blades again, he gave a mighty push and forced Fuinur to his knees, the mortal groaning with the effort to resist the Elf's inhuman strength.

"Yield, Marshall, and we shall talk. Refuse and I will obliterate you."

"You think you have the upper hand, impostor? You are no Dark Lord. My Master will soon come back from the exile and punish you for your arrogance."

"Which Master, Sauron or Melkor?” taunted Thranduil. “Do you serve that traitorous Maia or the first and true Dark Lord?"

The Black Númenórean faltered at this, but regained his confidence quickly.

"Serving one means serving the other,” he stated.

Thranduil snorted with derision at that. "Hardly. I do not recall Sauron trying to open the Doors of Night to free his previous lord from the void; he much prefers acting as lord himself rather than going back to being a servant. Now, will you cease attacking me or will you force me to slaughter you, a fellow Dark practitioner, just because you refuse to talk with a Firstborn?"

The Black Númenórean looked at him with disdain. "So you do not deny that you are an Elf?"

"I am an Elf," admitted Thranduil calmly. "But it does not define me. The circumstances of my birth are just that, circumstances. I do not recall being given a choice about my race. My faith and my allegiance on the other hand, these are my own."

"Very well, if I yield, is a talk your only demand?"

"Yes, it is."

"Then you are either stupid or weak. I will never submit to such a weakling," the man sneered, putting all his strength in shoving Thranduil back abruptly. He succeeded but it exhausted him to the point that his next attack was considerably weaker, which allowed Thranduil to block his shove with one sword only, the second blade finding its intended goal: the Black Marshall’s hand.

As two cut fingers fell to the ground, the man howled in shock, clutching his wounded hand to his torso in quite a futile attempt to protect it, since the harm was already done. Thranduil, not taking his eyes off Fuinur, picked up the ring that was still attached to the severed finger, taking it off and throwing away the piece of flesh without a second thought.

"Though it is nothing more than a useless trinket to me, it is in my possession now. If you think your pathetic master is invincible, consider this: Sauron can no longer call himself a lord of the Dark, as he was only ever usurping that title which does not, and will never again belong to him."

"Who are you?" hissed the Black Númenórean, his hate battling with fear.

"I have many names, but you do not deserve to know any of them. I tried to reason with you, but you did not listen, and so you brought this on yourself. When we meet again, I expect you to be on your knees, submitting to my rule as the head of the Dark Cult. Now, be gone!" ordered Thranduil, which forced the man's spirit back into his body.

The Elvenking focused on returning to his hröa as well, his mind already on the gaudy ring clutched in his palm. It was the very first ring of power in his possession and he found that he could not care less beside being glad that it meant one Nazgûl less to deal in the future.

He did not need any rings of power after all, not anymore.

* * *

Meanwhile, among the vast deserts of the Far Harad, the Dark Marshall woke up abruptly, looking at his wounded hand in disbelief. No one should have been able to harm him in the shadow world, no one but his Master. But the stubs of his missing fingers were as real as the pain that coursed through him and the blood that poured heavily from the wounds.

As he called for his servants to patch his battered hand, he realized he had made a grievous error in underestimating that strange Elf who wielded the Dark powers as if he was born to them. Fuinur promised himself that he will not make the same mistake again. The question was: should he serve this Dark Elf, or oppose him?

Chapter Text

It had taken Thranduil and Idhrenon several weeks to reach the Bay of Belfalas. During this time Thranduil had started to teach the younger Elf how to wield and fight with a sword, but quickly the Elvenking realized how unsuited he was to be a teacher. This afternoon was no better, he gritted his teeth in annoyance when Idhrenon failed to imitate his stance, and Thranduil’s patience was quickly wearing thin.

“Enough! This is getting us nowhere!” he barked harshly, aggravated by his apprentice’s clumsiness and his own inability to teach him better.

The younger Elf made a sound that was somewhere between a laugh and a sob. “Forgive me, my Lord. I know that I am awful at this”.

“You are,” admitted Thranduil, but seeing the devastated expression on his follower’s face, he added: “But that is not altogether your fault. I know that you are not this clumsy by nature, I have been observing you during our travel and I know that you are as graceful as any Elda… At least, as long as you are not wielding a blade. With enough time and effort this might be subject to change, but for now at least you will not be able to defend yourself in case of attack.”

Idhrenon looked downtrodden at that, but he knew that this was an accurate description of his skills, so he didn’t say anything else on the topic.

* * *

When they finally reached the point where the City of Umbar was at the sighting distance, Thranduil ordered Idhrenon to stay put and guard the horses. As expected, his order was met with hurt defiance.

“How can you ask me to abandon you here, on the foreign land, with no guards no less? I cannot, I will not!” the younger Elf protested vehemently after a couple of minutes of a heated argument.

Well, no one ever said that patience was Thranduil’s strong suit.

“Listen to me, and listen to me carefully,” he hissed menacingly. “The Umbarians hate the Eldar with a passion and they will stop at nothing to bring one of us down. The only feeling that is even stronger than their hate, is their fear of us. As you proved yourself to be as unthreatening as can be, if we go there together, we will be killed on spot if we are lucky. If we are less fortunate, we can count on a couple of hours of merciless torture before death. Now, if you wish to avoid this less than wondrous prospect, I suggest you stop this temper tantrum of yours and actually follow. My. Orders!”

Idhrenon blanched and asked quietly: “But what if you don’t come back, my liege? What will become of me?”

Thranduil sighed, feeling weary all of a sudden. “If I don’t come back within two days time, go back to my father and tell him of my fate. I will not have him wondering for years what became of me. And tell him that you tried to change my mind, so he knows that this is all on my head, not yours.”

“Sire… Why do you need to go there at all?”

Thranduil look turned wistful for a split second.

“Because while the Umbarians are our enemies, if all goes along to the plan, they may become our greatest allies.”

For a moment he remembered Ulbar and his reluctance to give his loyalty to Thranduil, and his unwavering devotion once he finally did. Getting the Umbarians to submit to him will be one hell of a challenge, he knew that, but the potential reward was too enticing to pass on.

* * *

As soon as Thranduil approached the city gates, he was accosted by a group of militia and before he even had a chance to speak, he was brutally pushed to the ground, chained and gagged, and then manhandled all the way to the keep. While, once upon a time, Thranduil the Elvenking would be mortified to find himself in such an undignified position, Thranduil the Dark Mage was rather unfazed by the whole ordeal, as long as it got him where he wanted to be, and that was inside the city, the closer to lord Herumor, the better.

Unfortunately, for the time being that meant being shoved to a small, stinking prison cell and awaiting in complete darkness for whatever these Umbarians had in store for him. He used that time well, meditating and gathering his strength, both physical and magical alike.

All too soon, he heard the heavy cell doors being opened and the dungeon was lit by a couple of torches held by olive-skinned guards. After them, a noble-looking man came in, his face impassive on the surface, but whose eyes held a malicious glint that did not sit well with Thranduil.

“I wonder what made an elven spy approach my city gates so boldly,” the man stated coldly. “Were you so sure of your alleged superiority that you thought you would be able to defeat my men singlehandedly?”

Thranduil only raised his brow and mentioned his gag, showing that he was unable to speak.

“This is what you want, isn’t it? To have the gag removed so that you can bespell me using your elven witchcraft. Well, not this time, filth. Your accursed gods have recently flooded my homeland so I will not hear a word from you. Guards! You and you,” the lord motioned two of his men. “Take him to the halls of torture and give him a good whipping, for a start. Let us see how this white demon enjoys Umbarian hospitality,” he ordered with a vindictive sneer. “Once he is cowed enough, bring him to the audience hall. I want my court to enjoy the sight of an Elf beaten to a pulp.”

Once again, Thranduil was manhandled and shoved around until they reached a vast hall with various torture devices and wickedly-looking accessories. There, he was bound tightly to a pillar and his clothes were ripped from his back, exposing the unblemished skin underneath. While the older guard went to pick up a whip, the younger one grinned wickedly as he caressed Thranduil’s white skin with almost tender care.

“Such a beauty… Not much longer, though,” he said in a heavily accented common language.

Thranduil bit his gag forcefully once the first lash landed on his back. Before he was able to gather his bearings, he was hit again, his whole body shaking from the impact. After twelve hits he lost his resolve to remain silent and he moaned loudly. The sound was muffled by the gag in his mouth, but the guards apparently heard him still, as they laughed uproariously at him.

“Not so high and mighty anymore, is he?” the younger guard taunted in Adûnaic. “I like how he moans, better than a whore in a brothel!” He came closer and made a move to remove the rag from Thranduil’s mouth, but the older guard’s words stopped him:

“Stop, Irpân! You heard lord Herumor, we should leave the gag lest he curses us.”

“I ain’t afraid of a bound and whipped Elf!” snapped the younger guard and removed the gag forcefully. “Now, make him moan!”

As the next lash landed on Thanduil’s back, he groaned loudly, a plan forming in his mind. The guard called Irpân started to message his crotch with vigor, apparently enjoying the show. Thranduil faked a sob and let a couple of tears to escape his eyes. Emboldened by the prisoner’s apparent vulnerability, the heavily aroused guard came closer and obscenely licked at the tears. This was what the Elvenking was waiting for: fast as lightning he bit the guard on the ear, hard enough to draw blood. The guard howled with pain and jumped back, clutching at his ear.

The older guard roared with laughter. “You had it coming, Irpân!”

Thranduil licked his lips and smiled widely, showing his bloodied teeth. “You both had your fun,” he said in fluent Adûnaic, thankful for the language lessons with Ulbar. “Now, I will have mine,” he purred, feeling the flow of magic sourced from the blood forcibly taken. Oh, he will surely pay for this influx of power in a couple of hours. But now… Now he had a city to take.

Chapter Text

It took barely a thought to shatter the manacles around his wrists. A moment later, Thranduil snapped the younger guard’s neck with ease, like it was a dry twig under his boot and not a piece of man’s flesh and bone. His eyes turned to the other guard who was standing paralyzed with a bloodied whip still in his hand.

“Either you drop it immediately, or you die,” Thranduil promised.

The guard’s eyes bulged at that but he complied and threw the lash away.

“Did you enjoy seeing me writhe under you whip? Did you have fun making me bleed?” Thranduil hissed, taking a step forward.

The guard gulped loudly, sweat gathering on his brow. “Please, I was just following orders!” he exclaimed and the Elvenking almost rolled his eyes at this age-old excuse.

“That you were… But if you wish to live, from now on you will be only following mine.”

The guard licked his lips nervously, but gathered his bearings after a moment. “Even if I decided to betray lord Herumor and become a forswearer for it, I cannot follow an infidel.”

Thranduil smiled, a wide smile full of teeth that did nothing to alleviate the Umbarian’s fears. “I am pleased to hear it, as I have no intention whatsoever to come between you and your faith. In fact,” he continued, “a Dark rite is just what I need right now.”

“You… You are a Dark Practitioner?” the guard asked disbelievingly.

“Tell me, what is your name?” Thranduil inquired instead.

The man hesitated, wary of revealing his name so, but after receiving a sharp glance from the Elvenking he quickly cowed.

“Târik, son of Dâur.”

“I am not only a Dark Practitioner, I am a Dark Mage as well. Let us pray together, then, Târik, son of Dâur, and you will see for yourself if I speak the truth.”

The Elvenking knelt first, and the guard had no choice but to follow. For all his duties as the city guard, he could not refuse a prayer even if he wanted to; his faith would not allow him to.

“I call to you, Everlasting Darkness,” intoned Thranduil. “Receive my prayers with grace and accept the blood sacrificed today in your name. Thank you for all the blessings you bestowed upon me, for the pain you brought me, as it has given me the strength needed to remain fighting in your name.”

The shadows around them deepened, encompassing them like a veil from the underworld. The torches’ fires flickered, as if touched by an invisible hand. The Umbarian kneeling beside him shuddered, his breath becoming shallow, from fear or elation, Thranduil did not know.

“I call to you, Everlasting Darkness,” whispered Târik. “Allow my lesser blood to be sacrificed for your pleasure. Take me and break me, twist me and destroy me, until I am no more. With my blood and faith will I share, so I swear on my forefathers’ names.”

The guard took out a sacrificial dagger from his belt and made a shallow wound on his forearm. Hesitating for a moment, he offered the wounded arm to Thranduil who accepted the offer, swallowing the mouthful of blood with relish. The flow of power it gave him was slower and gentler than when he had bitten the younger guard earlier, however it tasted sweeter and would last longer, not leaving him vulnerable afterwards. Thranduil closed his eyes for a moment, letting the magic fill him as wine would fill a chalice.

“Thank you for this,” he said sincerely, getting up. “Now, since we have established that I am as Dark as can be, let us go back to the matter at hand. I know that you were supposed to bring me to lord Herumor as soon as I am beaten to a pulp. Am I bleeding enough for your tastes so that you can follow that order and lead me to the audience chamber without further delay?” the mage asked, his impatience finally showing.

The guard swallowed heavily, then nodded.

“Lead the way, then.”

* * *

The Dark Marshall was tired to the bone. After losing his Ring and two fingers with it – he still wasn’t sure which loss bothered him more – he had decided to forgo all his plans and travel straight back to Umbar with haste. His lieutenants would have moaned at the exhausting tempo with which he had ordered his armies to march if they weren’t so cowed of him.

That was of no matter, though. As much as he despised lord Herumor, he needed to know if that pompous aristocrat had lost his Ring as well. If they both had been targeted… That would mean that a new, Dark power had risen with them being none the wiser. And Fuinur despised the unknown even more than he did Herumor.

And now, bone tired after a long and taxing journey, he was forced to mingle with useless nobles until Herumor finally deigned to confer with him. The nerve of him! If Fuinur wasn’t still mourning the loss of many of their kin in the fall of Anadûnê, he would strangle the useless fool himself with his own bare hands, missing fingers or not.

As it was, he gritted his teeth and told himself for a tenth time this afternoon that this was not the time for a coup. They were surrounded by enemies, both known and unknown, and a civil war was the last thing this land needed.

His musings were interrupted by a peculiar sight, as two figures appeared in the audience chamber: a lone guard and his bloodied, whipped prisoner. Fuinur stared incredulously at the white-haired Elf who had bested him in the Shadow world, now beaten down and humiliated, but still looking as arrogant as when the Dark Marshall had first met him.

The delighted, wicked grin on lord Herumor’s face turned into an angry scowl when he asked: “Who relieved this scum of gag and shackles?”

“Be silent, worm, lest I relieve you of your tongue,” the Elf ordered, his head held high and voice ringing unnaturally loud. “You have chained the one that you owe your allegiance to, for I am the Golden King’s heir, the only true lord of this land. You have only ever served yourself, and your unlawful reign ends now!”

“I will make you howl for this," Herumor hissed. "Guards!”

A half dozen armed men turned to the prisoner with blades in hands but after a split moment they cried out as their arms broke with sickening crunch at the Elf's mere flick of fingers, their swords falling uselessly to the floor. As they moaned and cursed, Fuinur took out his own blade with an unwounded hand and took a step towards his enemy.

“You and I have unfinished business, Elf,” he said with a deceptive calmness, although anger raged inside him like inferno. “And I despise being lied to even more than I dislike being attacked in the middle of the night by an unknown foe.”

The white demon turned to him with a deceptive smile. “Well, well, if it isn't the Dark Marshall himself! The last time when we spoke I promised you that I will either see you on your knees, or I will kill you without mercy. And I am many things, but liar is not one of them. So, what will you choose: submission or death?”

“You are a liar if you call yourself Ar-Pharazôn’s heir!” Fuinur spat with hatred. “No Elf will ever rule over us!”

“You may believe me or not, but know this: only through me the Dark Lord Melkor can be unleashed upon this world once more. So you will either kneel, or die as a traitor to the Shadow Cult.”

As the Elf was speaking, the shadows started to pool around his feet, thick and threatening, reaching towards the Dark Marshall as if they were vicious claws. And for the first time in his life, Fuinur started to fear the Darkness, the same force that had been his sole source of strength and which had once given him a purpose. A purpose which he apparently had forgotten during his senseless struggles over influence and power.

It had been so easy to accept the Ring of Power from Sauron and bend his neck to the fallen Maia, believing it to be the only way to serve the Darkness Eternal. But over the course of the years that mission - which had been the very reasoning behind his decisions - had become overshadowed by Sauron's plans to rule the Middle Earth. That in itself had never been Fuinur's intention, except maybe as a means to an end. Above all, he had sworn to aid the Great Lord Melkor's return, with his life if need be, and it pained him to realise that he had strayed from that path.

Once, he had believed that Sauron might be the key to achieve the Dark Cult's ultimate goal, but now he started to doubt it. He glanced at the Elf who was surrounded with such deep, all-encompassing Darkness that it was hard not to tremble in his presence. Never in the entire history of Arda had a Firstborn dared to become even passingly familiar with the Shadow, much less achieve such an awe-inspiring mastery over it - which meant that this white-haired Elf was no fraud. And because of that, Fuinur suddenly knew what he needed to do if he wanted to honour the vows he had once made in the Dark Lord's name - the only true Dark Lord's.

Agonizingly slow, the Dark Marshall knelt. “Standing before the Darkness Eternal I am nothing, no lord, no general. I beg you to lead me back to the Shadow, where my soul belongs.”

Chapter Text

Seeing the Fuinur's surrender, Thranduil exhaled with relief. He would fight the Dark Marshall and kill him in a heartbeat if it came to that, but it would be a waste of the man's talents and resources - not to mention a needless loss of life of a faithful Dark Practitioner. That was not what he wanted to achieve here, and he was secretly glad that Fuinur hadn't forced his hand in that direction.

“A wise choice,” he murmured appreciatively, clasping the man's arm and pulling him up to his feet. “If your faith is strong enough, I shall lead you into the very heart of Darkness.”

Then, he heard Herumor’s haughty voice: “Fuinur might be naive enough to buy into your promises, but I am not so easily impressed with your parlor tricks and empty claims to power.”

He turned around and faced the lord of Umbar. “Then this is the day when you meet your end.”

“Not so fast! First, let's test how much you value your followers. You see, when I heard of your capture, I could not believe that a lone Elf would venture into these lands without any sort of escort, so I sent a troop of soldiers to scout the area. Lo and behold, they captured another Elf, who squealed like a fearful maiden when they caught him. So if anything happens to me, you will be sentencing him to a long, agonizing death,” the man sneered at him, thinking he'd gained an upper hand. 

In response, Thranduil lunged at him and swung his twin blades with an elven speed that was additionally enhanced by the sacrificial blood he'd consumed earlier. With one sword he relieved the man of his ringed hand, while the other one he buried deep in the man's lower stomach, then yanked it up all the way up to the sternum. Only then he drew it out, blood staining his hand, while the shadowy blade remained clear of all the gore.

As the body crumbled to the ground with a raspy, breathless wheeze - the last sound uttered by the dying man - he turned to Fuinur.

“Keep everyone here, and don't let anyone leave this chamber until I get back. Târik, you're coming with me,” he ordered.

“I don't know where your companion has been taken, my lord,” the guard said, though he followed Thranduil obediently.

“It does not matter, all I need is a city guard to cover my back and discourage anyone who would wish to stop me,” he replied, his feet already carrying him in the direction he felt his blood bond with Idhrenon was pulling him to. He didn't watch where he was going or who was standing in his way; he was in too much hurry for that. Judging by his own imprisonment, the Umbarians liked nothing more than to torment their captives, so it was all the more important to get to the young Elf as soon as possible, before any serious harm befell him.

He only hoped that he wouldn't be too late.

***

Idhrenon curled into a tight ball, trying to ignore the rowdy, uproarious laughter of his captors gathered in the room outside his cell. They had already had their sick fun, taking turns with him, and when his cries and begging had turned to weak whimpers, they got bored enough to leave him alone – though how long the respite would last, he didn't know.

A tremble ran through his body as he remembered their fists and their knives, the whip with which they had flogged him and the ropes which they had used to keep him still when they had– when they had forced–

He choked back sobs, pain and shame tearing him apart, and he shut his eyes, trying to fight back tears. His fëa shuddered at all the torment, the degradation. He felt it quivering, yearning to abandon this weak, fragile body, and he wanted nothing more than to let it…

When he heard a commotion nearby, he didn't dare to open his eyes, fearful of what new torment it could mean for him. Even when he heard a clanking of metal against metal, then an unmistakable sound of a key turning and a heavy iron door getting open with a loud creak, he only curled deeper into himself, wishing he could disappear. 

“Idhrenon, it's me.”

The shock of hearing his Lord's voice finally caused him to open his eyes. Seeing Thranduil's battered body, covered in dirt and blood, yet somehow standing all the prouder for it, made him gape incredulously. 

“Did they get to you too, my Lord?” he choked out, his voice hoarse from the earlier screaming. The lopsided grin he received in return was the last thing he would expect in such a vile, gloomy place.

“They did, but in consequence they have gotten a lesson in telling a predator from prey, a lesson which they will not forget anytime soon... Can you stand up? We need to get out of here.”

Idhrenon gingerly propped himself up on his elbows, and as he tried to get up, a pained whimper escaped his lips. “I can't, it hurts so much… Please, let me be, I just want it to stop.”

Thranduil squatted beside him. “Idhrenon, I know that this may seem like the darkest hour, a place of no return, but I promise you that it is not. This pain that you're feeling, it can also give you the power to survive this, but only if you let it.”

“How?” He croaked. 

“Feel each, even the smallest wound, and let the pain in rather than shy away from it. For us, the creatures of Darkness, this is the second biggest source of our strength. So whenever our enemies seek to break us, they give us the weapon to defeat them.”

“But I'm not dark…” he protested weakly.

“You accepted the blood bond with me, so at least a part of you is. Go on, reach inside you and find that strength.”

It was his Lord's unfailing belief that he could do it made Idhrenon grit his teeth and raise himself onto his knees and then onto his feet, even though his body was shaking violently from pain. When he finally stood up, his brow was covered in cold sweat, but he didn't feel the same crippling weakness as before.

“Do you still feel like giving up, or do you want to live?” Thranduil asked him, standing up too.

“Live, I want to live,” he rasped out. 

“Good. Keep fighting, and the shame that you're feeling right now will melt like snow in the heat of your strength. Just do not give up until that happens.”

Idhrenon clenched his jaw and nodded jerkily. The way his Lord spoke to him, without even an ounce of sadness or pity, but with a fierce belief that he could overcome his weakness, it made him feel less like a victim, and more like a survivor… And he liked it better that way.

When they left the prison cell and moved to enter the guard's room, his steps faltered. Standing up so that he could escape was one thing, but facing the men who had taken such joy in tormenting him filled him with crippling dread that made him freeze in place.

“What about the guards?” His voice quivered as he looked at Thranduil hesitantly.

“Have no fear, they are either dead or unconscious.”

He swallowed thickly, his throat parched. “I wish they were all dead.”

The long, piercing look his Lord gave him made him feel exposed, as if all his failings, all the ugly parts of him were suddenly revealed, and he tensed in response, waiting for the inevitable judgment. But Thranduil did nothing of that sort, but instead put a hand on his shoulder and squeezed it.

“We will enter that room together, and if there's any man in there who has committed any unforgivable act against you and is still breathing, say a word and I will strike him dead."

***

As they were on their way back to the citadel, Thranduil made sure that he and Idhrenon looked properly cowed like prisoners or slaves would, in order to not attract any undue attention. With the blood magic still flowing through his body, he was quite sure that he could protect them both against a direct attack, but he didn't want to risk that archers would get a bead on them from a distance.

Only once inside, when they were about to enter the audience chamber, did he straighten proudly, the faux meekness gone as if it was never there. He gathered all his remaining power - just in case Fuinur had a change of heart and decided to oppose him, after all - then he entered the room, ready to defend himself and Idhrenon if need be.

There was a sudden hush in conversations as they entered, all eyes turning in their direction. The guards stood up at once from where they had been nurturing their broken bones, but did not make any moves towards them - a good sign, if he were to venture a guess. In the corner of his eye he spotted the body of the late lord of Umbar which had been pushed to the side, a bloody trail on the marble floor tiles showing the path where it had been dragged.

He pointed at the body. “Lord Herumor had thought it wise to put into question my dedication to my sworn followers; I deemed it fitting that his death should prove without any doubt that anyone who threatens me and mine would meet a gruesome end,” he said in a slightly raised voice, so that his words would reach every single person assembled in the room, from a low servant to a high ranking noble. “Now, since that has been settled, let us put down swords. I did not come to Umbar to slaughter fellow servants of the Shadow, and I'd rather not spill anymore blood, if it can be avoided."

Chapter Text

After having witnessed Herumor's death and Fuinur's allegiance change, no one seemed eager to oppose Thranduil; at least, not openly. At his suggestion that they should commence later, people started to disperse in a tense, wary silence, but without any real resistance. Once the audience chamber emptied, Fuinur approached him with something akin to hesitance in his steps. 

“I believe that this now belongs to you, my lord,” the Dark Marshall said quietly, a golden ring adorned with an oval ruby lying innocently on his outstretched palm.

Oh yes, in his haste to get to Idhrenon he hadn't even thought to claim Herumor’s Ring of Power. Not that he needed it at this point, but letting it fall into untrusted hands wasn't advisable either. On the other hand, the Dark Marshall could've taken the ring and hidden it, yet had done nothing of that sort. Maybe the man could be trusted, after all?...

“I leave it in your hands for safekeeping for the time being,” he decided. “I will first need a bath and a new set of clothes for myself and my servant, until our possessions are fetched from wherever Herumor stashed them. Can you arrange both?”

Fuinur didn't even blink at being given tasks which were more suitable for a mayor of the palace, rather than a warlord. “Of course. May I ask what happens afterwards?”

Thranduil exhaled slowly. “I'll need access to a temple, and as many devoted Dark Practitioners as you can find. Not those who pray because it's expected, but true, devoted believers. The Shadow Cult needs to become this nation’s priority instead of a race for riches that Herumor was so fond of.”

The Dark Marshall tilted his head. “That is a noble cause indeed, one that has my utmost support. However, to some of the nobles their purses are more important than their ancestors’ faith. They will not take kindly to any change that makes them any less rich than they already are.”

“Then they better fume quietly and out of my sight. If they force my hand, they will be taken care of in kind,” he said sternly. “I didn't travel here to pillage these lands nor its people, though. There will be plenty of chances to fill ones’ coffins in the future, once my plans come to fruition.”

He hadn't spent an age as a monarch for nothing; he knew that money was important in the times of peace, but even more crucial in the times of war. Having centuries worth of knowledge didn't hurt either; he knew exactly which mountains in the region were hiding ores of iron and coal, copper and silver, that in this age were untapped yet. 

***

While the Umbarians were reluctant to attempt to kill him in broad daylight, they certainly tried to do so under the veil of night, and sent an assassin through the balcony connected to the room he and Idhrenon were resting in. 

As he pulled his sword out of the man's stomach, the body slumped to the floor with a muffled thud, which alerted the Dark Marshall, who had been standing guard by the door. Fuinur barged in and blanched, seeing that his preventive measures had failed.

“My lord, forgive me–”

Thranduil waved off the apologies. “We will need new chambers, these are quite sullied,” he grimaced at the stench the torn intestines were producing.

“I'll see to it at once.”

“Once you do, make sure to get some rest as well. We are Eldar, we don't sleep as you mortals do, so catching us unaware is nearly impossible. However, come morning I shall need you to be at your full capacity; we have much to do.”

Fuinur nodded and bowed low before leaving.

Idhrenon watched it all with wide eyes. “My lord, you know that I'll follow you to the edge of the world, but… May I ask what our purpose is here? What are we trying to accomplish?”

Thranduil wiped his sword on the bedsheets until it was polished to reflect the starlight. Only then did he turn to his sworn servant.

“We're recruiting an army that will be the battering ram I'm planning to use against our enemies. I admit that the recruitment part hasn't been met with much enthusiasm so far, but that should change shortly,” he said with confidence.

His path was clear to him: he was going to unite Harad and Umbar under one flag, that of Darkness Eternal, and make it the most successful, prosperous empire in history. And ultimately, make it into a war machine, able to withstand and win any war that lies ahead, be it with Gondor or Sauron's forces.

***

Uniting mortals under an Elven rule turned out to be quite challenging, even more than he'd expected. He didn't fully manage to inspire loyalty in the priests of the Shadow Cult either; while they accepted him as a Dark Mage, he didn't have the means to actually prove his claim of being Ar-Pharazôn's heir, which was crucial for him to lawfully claim the throne, rather than just usurp it.

“Surely you've read the Ar-Pharazôn's grimoire, it clearly states that his heir isn't going to be a mortal,” he argued his case, exasperated.

The high priest looked at him strangely. “Which grimoire are you referring to?”

“The Most Potent Magics…” he trailed off. It was the last of the Golden King's creations, written in his last years and finished shortly before his death. “Has it not been retrieved from the remains of Ar-Pharazôn's armada yet?”

“Some survivors of the sinking of Anadûnê have recently reached our shores, but no one from the party that was headed to Valinor.”

Thranduil hummed thoughtfully, doing quick calculations in his head. “That trip took an additional four to five weeks, so I'd estimate twice that time for them to reach Umbar… I'll ask the Marshall to set up a watch on the shore to look out for any ships coming from the west. Once the grimoire is retrieved, it’ll confirm my claim.”

The priest stiffened. “Dark Practitioner or not, we can't allow you to take possession of such holy writings–”

“You may keep it, I have no need for it,” he shrugged, unconcerned. He had the entirety of it memorized by now. “But once you familiarize yourself with it, you'll be the one coming to me, begging me for forgiveness for your recalcitrance, for I am Ar-Pharazôn's true heir. You wouldn't want to be on the wrong side of history, now would you?”

The high priest suppressed a grimace, but bowed dutifully and left. The man was as evasive and slippery as an eel, probably biding his time, waiting for the most opportune moment to betray him. Not that it mattered; Thanduil didn’t plan on dropping his guard around anyone who hadn't sealed their loyalty to him with a blood vow. Which reminded him that he needed to have his tattoos redone as well… So many things to do, in so little time, before Umbarians shake off their initial shock and rebel against his rule.

Was this how mortals felt, always short on time, with a threat of death hanging above their heads throughout their entire lives like an executioner's axe, making all their effort seem like a race? If that's the case, then he finally understood their erratic, sometimes wild behavior, their acts of heroism and betrayal. It was all but a futile attempt at stopping the inevitable; a desperate flickering of life that can't bear the thought of being extinguished.

It suddenly struck him that by flooding the entire island of Númenor, Eru had proven how easily he was able to end the lives of the entire nation, with no one powerful enough to stop him. It wasn't enough for him to make men's lives so short while the Eldar could live on for millenia; he had to rub the threat of death in their faces. It was beyond cruel.

So far, Thranduil hadn't really considered what he'll do once the time comes for him to open the Door of Night. It was prophesied that he'll have the ability to do so; but Ar-Pharazôn had been adamant in his writings that following through with it was Thranduil’s decision alone. Having the chance to get Eru dethroned once and for all seemed more and more enticing by the minute, though. Was it worth the risk of releasing Morgoth from its cage, though? That, he didn't know.

***

The next day, he asked Fuinur to gather all the city's influential people: Umbarians and Haradrim; sea folk and desert folk. Aristocrats, officers, and priests, but also guild masters and the most successful merchants – all the people considered to be the pillars of their city and nation.

The Dark Marshall furrowed his brow. “May I ask, what should they expect?”

“I want to share my vision with your people, for until I do, I expect to meet resistance at every stop, and that is unacceptable,” Thranduil shook his head with rueful determination. Seeing the Dark Marshal's hesitant expression, he motioned at the man to speak up. “What is it?”

“I'm afraid that words alone might not be enough to make an impact, my lord,” Fuinur admitted. 

Thranduil smirked. “I have more to show than just words. Gather all the devout servants of the Shadow that you trust, for what I have planned, I'll need sacrificial blood, and lots of it. No life sacrifices, though,” he added. He would never request those unless the need was truly dire.

At sunset, he exited his chambers wearing a long robe embroiled with a silver thread, his royal circlet adorning his head, retrieved from his previously confiscated bags. He walked into the backyard where the crowd was already gathered, surrounding himself with dark magic as if it was an outer robe.

“I am Thranduil, son of king Oropher of the Woodland realm, previously from the ancient kingdom of Doriath. Even though you see me as an usurper, I'm here to prepare you for the trials that lie ahead, for the sinking of Anadûnê, no matter how tragic, does not mark the end of this age,” he made a short pause, letting them digest his words. “You probably know of the great war that changed the face of the earth and concluded the First Age. Be aware that another world-wide conflict is brewing, and your nation has two paths: either you will be caught unaware, and grinded into dust by the wheels of war, or you will strive to become the greatest empire this age has seen, strengthened by the mutual faith in the Shadow.”

He gestured at the men Fuinur had selected earlier. One by one, they each made a cut on their palms or forearms, letting their blood trickle to a single bowl that was being handed from man to man, then finally to the Dark Marshall himself, and then to Idhrenon, who then handed the bowl to him. He took a drink and sighed in relish as the sacrificial power flooded his fëa. 

“North from here soon will grow not one, but two empires of men, both founded by the so-called Faithful. Elendil, his sons Isildur and Anarion will become their leaders and kings. This is an enemy that you can't ignore, for if you do so, they will grow too powerful for you to defend against.” 

He closed his eyes, then through the lens of his mind he recalled the memories of Gondor and Arnor of old, their white towers, strongholds and citadels, the armor-plated armies. Then he pushed those visions forward, straight into the minds of the people gathered before him.

“Behold the Reunited Kingdom of Gondor and Arnor,” he called out loudly, to ensure his voice carried above the crowds amongst all the gasps and shouts. “This new power is rising in the north, while in the land of Mordor Sauron is rebuilding his fortress and his armies once more. Over the next century those two forces will change Middle-Earth into a battlefield once again, and your country will need to grow stronger and more resilient than either of them - unless you prefer to be used as a mere pawn in the games of those more powerful than you.”

He saw their hesitance, the turmoil his words had caused. But he wasn't done yet; he focused on yet another memory, that of the War of the Last Alliance, and pushed it into their minds with a force that made the weaker of them wobble on their feet. 

“The one you call Sauron the Great, Lord of the Earth and King of Kings - he's not the Dark Lord of your prayers, he's just one of Melkor's servants, and one who's too focused on his own attempts to gain power over Middle Earth to see further than that,” he continued. “I intend to remind him of his duties to his true master, and if he's taken too much of a liking to being called a Dark Lord himself, then he will be punished for his hubris.”

Finally, he showed them a vision of Sauron in his dark glory, the One Ring shining on his monstrous finger - and how he had withered and turned into a wraith once the Ring had been cut from his hand by Isildur.

This wasn't a memory, as the Greenwood armies had already retreated from war and returned to their kingdom by that point, but he knew enough of those events to create an accurate image of it in his mind, and force it into the minds of the people gathered around him.

“Remember the roots of your faith,” he called out. “And believe in the strength of men. This is your time to prove your worth, and my sole purpose is to guide you and shape you into a force to be reckoned with. And now, let's pray to Shadow to give us strength in the upcoming trials."

Slowly but surely, they all fell to their knees, finally submitting to his will. As he started to chant, they joined their voices with his, and he felt a shiver run down his spine. This was the purest magic of all, the union of souls united by a common faith. By harnessing its power, he could achieve nearly everything, he realized.

“I call to you, Everlasting Darkness…”

Chapter Text

Showing the men a powerful enemy to unite against turned out to be quite a successful method that distracted them from their hatred of the Firstborn, at least for the time being. The Elven kingdoms were too far to be considered a real threat, but a budding kingdom that was growing just right under Haradrim's noses was a much tangible threat. Still, Thranduil could sense their wariness around him; he wasn't one of them, and it was going to take more than his visions of the future for them to fully accept him into their midst. In the meantime, he took upon himself to prove to them that he was a strict but capable ruler.

Since the waters had risen and flooded the entire seaside as an aftermath of the sinking of Númenor, many of the Umbar's fishing boats had been destroyed. This resulted in shortages of food, which he was informed of by the city council, seeking his advice on the matter.

“Does Umbar rely solely on fishing to obtain its food?” he asked.

“It's the main source, though not the only one. There are fields in the surrounding area that supplied the city in the past, growing mostly wheat, barley and lentils, but the floods made the groundwaters salty and as such unusable for irrigation,” one of the council members explained in the Common tongue, mostly for Idhrenon's benefit, since Thranduil spoke Adûnaic, while Idhrenon did not. “And since we are in the middle of the dry season and don't expect the rain to fall for weeks on end… we are facing a famine, my lord, one of the worst in our history.”

Thranduil drummed his fingers on the table absentmindedly while he thought about the matter. “What about livestock?”

“Goats are our supply of milk, and if we slaughter them for meat, we'll be trading one issue for another. Currently our people are mostly drinking fresh or fermented milk, as well as beer and pomegranate wine from the previous years. But animals need water as well, so once the wells in the rural areas dry out…”

“There will be nothing left to eat or to drink, I understand,” Thranduil nodded. “How long is it going to take for you to rebuild the fishing fleet?”

“Considering that we're short on building materials and need to transport them from afar, it will take months to rebuild the fleet. And we don't have that much time, the food supplies will run short in a matter of a month, maybe two if we start rationing now without delay. Slaughtering the livestock will give us another two to three weeks, and we can drink goat blood if there's nothing else to drink by then… but that is it.”

Thranduil sat in silence for a few moments, pondering the issue, when he saw Idhrenon fidgeting in his seat. He motioned at his servant to speak up.

“My liege, could you– could you summon the rain? I know that you were capable of it back in the days, when you weren't…” Idhrenon reddened. 

“When I was still a being of Light and not sworn to the Shadow, you mean,” Thranduil finished the sentence for him. “I haven't used Light magic in ages, so I can't be sure if it will heed my call, but you are right. Not giving it a try would be negligent.”

He saw the men gathered around him exchanging wary looks.

“What kind of sacrifice does this Light spell require, my lord?” Fuinur asked what they were all probably thinking about: what price they would be required to pay.

“Nothing, Marshall, there is no sacrifice involved,” he assured them, trying to ease their worries. “Light magic is different from the Dark rites, it builds upon one's connection to the world.”

That's why when the Eldar start to fade, they gradually lose their powers. And that was also the reason why the Elves of the Third and Fourth age had been considerably weaker than in the ages past; their isolation from the world around them had taken its toll on their inner light.

“Is there anything that you need to perform this spell?” Fuinur asked.

“Just a harp, if any of the nobles owns one,” he said, then smiled slightly at the Marshal's incredulous look. “All types of magic need a conduit of some sort. For Dark Mages it is blood, but when it comes to Light magic, many Elves use music as a medium to channel their will. It could simply be a chant or a song, but for me enchanting yielded better results when I played a harp. And considering that our need is great indeed, I'd prefer to use all the tools at my disposal.”

“Then a harp you shall have, my lord,” Fuinur nodded. He seemed skeptical of the idea that something so simple as playing an instrument could be key to his people's survival, but he kept his doubts to himself.

***

There had been a time when commandeering weather was Thranduil's only magical power. He did not have any skills in healing, enchanting objects, or weaving illusions; he was only able to steer rainclouds towards his intended direction, and in Greenwood it wasn't a particularly useful skill. Here, in the south, though, it could make the difference between life and death of starvation for thousands of people… Provided that he still possessed that power and hadn't lost it when he started dabbling in Dark magic.

Once he tuned the harp that had been brought to his rooms, he brushed his fingertips against the tightly pulled strings, revelling in the gentle sound. It had been so long since he played any music at all that he almost forgot how much he enjoyed it - thankfully, all it took was a few simple notes, and he remembered it in an instant. However, playing music was wildly different from using it to cast a spell that was purely Light in nature.

Idhrenon seemed to sense his hesitation.

“You told me before that you are as much a creature of Dark as you are of Light, my liege. Surely it must work both ways?” 

Thranduil took a deep breath and stood. “There's no way of knowing until I put it to the test.” 

He exited his chambers, with Idhrenon just a step behind him, carrying the harp. Outside, the Dark Marshall was already waiting for them.

“Where would you like to perform the spell, my lord?” Fuinur asked. 

“I need access to an open space where I'll be undisturbed that is highly positioned, the higher the better. An embattlement, perhaps?”

The Haradrim bowed low and led them through the halls and towards the spiral staircase leading up to the citadel's battlements and the archers’ platform. The sun was high in the sky, hot and bright, bathing the land with unrelenting heat.

“The nearest rain clouds are probably a considerable distance from here, so this may take a while, with no visible change for hours on end,” Thranduil warned Fuinur. 

“I was born in the deserts of the deep south, my lord, I'm used to the heat. I shall wait and guard you for as long as it's needed,” the Dark Marshall assured him. 

Thranduil nodded, then took the harp from Idhrenon. He hesitated for a split second before he started playing. It was a song of the ancient times, soft and gentle, like a sheen of morning dew in spring. But eventually, every spring would become past and give place to summer - and so the melody changed as well. The notes were higher and sharper now, pleading and demanding at the same time.

In the background, he could hear Idhrenon sing in an old Nandorin dialect that probably only the Silvan Elves still remembered. 

Wërdê rëgan, let there be rain.

Wërdê rëgan.

Wërdê rëgan.

He didn't know how long he was playing, as his fëa left his body and flew into the skies above. He wasn't a corporeal being anymore, he was one with the wind, and he had a single mission: to bring rain to this land and save its people.

The sun was just starting to set when a drop of water fell on his cheek, then another. He opened his eyes, startled, as his spirit reluctantly returned to his body. On the streets below people were cheering, crying and hugging each other, while soft rain fell from the now cloudy skies.

He handed the harp back to Idhrenon, then turned towards Fuinur whose face turned ashen, a broken expression on his usually stoic face.

Thranduil frowned. “Was it so unbearable for you, to witness a Light spell being performed?”

The Dark Marshall took a shaky breath. “In a way, yes. I've been hating the Light my entire life, and yet, I've never witnessed anything more beautiful.”

Thranduil reached out and squeezed the man's shoulder. “The world itself was created with music, and feeling hatred towards the very power that flows through every living being is ignorant at best, and self-destructive at worst. It's not the Light that is at fault; it's the beings that commandeer it, the Valar and Eru himself. They are not all-wise, nor are they infallible. It's them that I oppose with every part of my being, Marshall. Perhaps you should consider assuming the same approach.”

Fuinur gave him a curt, grateful nod.

Below them, the city rejoiced, hailing their lord and savior – Deyab-Ado, the rainbringer.

Chapter Text

Ever since the rainfall, there were no further assassination attempts, which marked a definite change in the Haradrims' mindset. As Thranduil had predicted, the survivors from Ar-Pharazôn's fleet that had set sail to Valinor finally reached the land. Luckily, the Golden King's grimoire was recovered, which gained him the priests’ allegiance, and helped to further support his claim to the throne. 

He was crowned on the first day of harvest, and given the royal name Ar-Tudnas, which could mean a guard of the realm, a protector, or even a savior. He would gladly accept all those meanings, as they accentuated how much the Umbarians’ perception of him had changed since the moment he arrived in the city.

After the coronation, he strolled down the streets, with people cheering loudly and scattering flower petals before him; if there were any malcontents hiding amongst the cheering crowds, they did not make themselves known nor did they cause any trouble.

Once the festivities died down and he found himself returning to the empty chambers, he realized that he couldn't recall when he had seen Idhrenon last since the beginning of the ceremony. He followed their bond, and found the young Elf on the shore, sitting on the sand and watching the waves with a strange expression on his face.

He approached the younger Elf and sat down beside him, not caring if he dirtied his robe in the process. “What troubles you?” 

“I'm… restless, my lord. It's like the sea is calling me,” Idhrenon replied, which heightened Thranduil's worry a thousandfold. Did all the pain and degradation that Idhrenon had suffered in captivity finally caught up to him and caused him to become susceptible to sea-longing?...

“Do you wish to sail to the Undying Lands?” He didn't know if that was still an option, considering that Idhrenon was blood-bound to him, but he needed to ask nevertheless.

The young Elf turned to him, his eyes wide. “No, no, that is not what it is, at least, I don't think so? But I can't help but think about what it would feel like, to be on a ship sailing so far into the ocean that I'd lose sight of the land, with only water beneath me and skies above me… I know it's just a foolish dream, I live to serve you and I'd never abandon my duties like that, I swear.”

Thranduil considered his words for a moment. “I told you before, that I don't want you to abandon your own dreams and ambitions.”

Idhrenon blinked, looking confused. “Please forgive me, but I don't understand. What are you saying, my lord?”

“I'm suggesting that maybe we should find you a ship and a crew that you would trust enough to sail with. Until you experience the sea for yourself, you're always going to be wondering if it's as great as you've imagined it. As for your duties, I'd say that you more than earned a reprieve, and deserve to follow your calling, whatever that is.”

Idhrenon had followed him into foreign lands without a single complaint, and even after being captured and tortured, he remained ever the faithful, dutiful servant. It was humbling, and Thranduil couldn't respond to such loyalty with anything else but kindness and understanding.

“Thank you, Sire, for giving me that much freedom,” Idhrenon nodded gratefully. “Perhaps on the course of my travels I will become more useful to you than I am now.”

“You may not be a warrior, but you are plenty useful in other ways. It was your idea to summon the rain, after all,” Thranduil reminded him. “I do have one last order to give to you, though: remember that you are forever bound to me, so even if you do hear the call of the Undying Lands, do not heed it, but come back to my service. I will not lose you like that.”

“I swear that no matter where I go or where my path leads me, be it on land or sea, I will always remain your servant,” Idhrenon bowed his head deeply, with utmost reverence.

That evening they returned to the citadel together. The next day, however, Idhrenon headed to the docks, looking for a ship whose captain wouldn't mind taking a Firstborn aboard and letting him become a part of his crew. It was the first time Idhrenon had shown such independence; it was quite reassuring that the young Elf finally started to learn how to stand on his own two feet, so to speak, rather than to forever hide in Thranduil’s protective shadow.

He, on the other hand, had an empire to build, and enemies to warn off from ever crossing him.

***

Isildur frowned as he gazed upon the palantír, its interior cloudy and tumultuous, with flashes of light and dark intermingling as if a war was being waged inside. He hesitated, then put a hand on its surface, and felt as if he was being submerged in a thick, murky water. The palantíri had never behaved in such a way, and he wondered whether it was only his stone that was malfunctioning, or if the other seeing stones were behaving similarly.

He closed his eyes and focused on contacting his brother, who was setting up a camp on the other side of the Anduin river. He felt a strange resistance, as if the stone itself was against being used, and it took a lot of his willpower to initiate the connection, and even more to sustain it as he waited for Anárion to accept the linkage on his end.

“Isildur, is that you?” He heard his brother's voice, but it was muted, as if a wall of thick glass was separating them.

“Anárion, my seeing stone isn't working properly for some reason. Do you experience the same issues with yours?”

“I do, brother. Let's meet by the river in five days, it'll be easier to discuss matters in person. I have much to–”

The connection broke abruptly and Isildur was thrown back by an invisible force, landing on the ground in a heap. Hearing the commotion, the guards entered the tent.

“Are you alright, my prince?”

Isildur groaned as he picked himself up and dusted off his clothing. “I am fine, you can go back to your posts,” he dismissed them.

Once he was left alone again, he looked uncertainly at the palantír. It had never acted like that before, and it worried him. What in the world could cause a seeing stone created by the High Elves in the Years of the Trees, to fail?…

He considered contacting his son Elendur, who had also been given a seeing stone before being sent south for reconnaissance, but he needed to regain his composure first. That short connection with Anárion had already taken up much of his strength, and he needed to recuperate a bit before he attempted to use the palantír again.

***

Elendur grunted as he was being forced to his knees by two dark-skinned warriors, probably of Haradrim descent, although he couldn't be entirely sure. He was too shaken to think clearly; his entire host had been slain and he shuddered to think what fate was awaiting him at the hands of his captors.

Should he beg for his life, he wondered, seeing as no one from his people was left alive to witness his humiliation. Would it even matter if he abandoned his pride, if no one apart from his enemies would ever know about it? Or maybe he should reveal his royal lineage, hoping that the Haradrim would rather ransom him than kill him…?

He looked up as a leader of the enemy's force approached him. The man was tall, mostly slender but with a broad chest, his skin a few tones lighter than that of his soldiers. He was wearing an open faced helmet, showing off a face that could almost be called beautiful, if it wasn't for his cold expression, indifferent to the carnage surrounding them.

“You are Isildur's son, aren't you, boy?” The man asked, circling Elendur like a predator encircling his prey.

He gritted his teeth, irked at being called a boy, at twenty one years old he was already of age. But he was even more enraged at the fact that this man had known who he was, yet had still attacked his host.

“If you know who I am, I demand to know why you attacked us, we did nothing to you!” he said hotly.

“Your people were trespassing on my land, and so they had to die,” the man explained calmly, as if discussing the weather. “This will happen to every single man or woman who dares to set foot south of the Anduin river, regardless of their race, age or descent. There will be no contact between our people, no trading, nothing. Anyone who comes here, does it at their own peril, and will meet their fate on my men's blades.”

Elendur swallowed with difficulty, his mouth suddenly going dry. “But why kill my host instead of giving us a warning first?”

“This is a warning,” the man said coldly. “If you think that you can simply land your ships and claim every piece of land that strikes your fancy, you are sorely mistaken. I'd rather soak this land in blood than let you venture further south. This is my dominion, and I'm going to protect it by any means necessary.”

He frowned. “Your dominion…? Who are you?”

That got him a painful cuff on the head, courtesy of one of the men holding him down. “You are in the presence of Ar-Tudnas, the one true king of Harad and Umbar. You will show him respect, or you'll be punished for your insolence.”

“Easy, Târik,” the king raised his hand. “Don't maim him too much, he needs to be able to carry a message to his father.”

Elendur's shoulders sagged in relief. Thank the Valar, he was going to be spared…

The king's eyes turned towards him. The man grabbed a fistful of his hair and forced his head back, while with the other hand he drew a long knife and pressed it to his neck. “Remember this moment, Elendur, son of Isildur. I am holding your life in my hands and just this once, I am going to spare it. Tell your father not to test me, for he will not like the consequences. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” he croaked out, conscious of the tip of the knife pressing into his skin.

“Good. Târik, put him on a horse and release him once you have the river in sight. All his belongings stay here, he won't need anything but clothes on his back.”

Elendur's eyes instinctively strayed to his tent, where he was keeping the palantír hidden in a locked chest. 

The king's eyes sharpened as they followed his line of sight. “You have a magical artifact in your possession, I can sense its power. It is mine now. Let it be a payment for letting you live.”

Elendur swallowed all his protests, knowing that he didn't have any leverage, and nothing to bargain with. He could only be thankful for being spared - even though the thought left a sour taste in his mouth.

Chapter Text

It took Elendur three days to reach Isildur’s camp on foot, and he nearly cried with relief when he saw the men of the day shift standing guard on the palisade. He was hungry and exhausted from the walk; ever since he had been released by the dark-skinned warrior, he had only eaten the fruits of the land: blueberries, mushrooms and some edible roots, whatever he had been able to find. Without a single blade on him, he didn’t have any means to hunt or catch any fish, so he had focused on getting back to his father as soon as he could. 

When his approach towards the camp was spotted by the guards, there was a momentary commotion before they recognized him and sent a rider with a spare horse his way. 

“Prince Elendur, where is the rest of your host, will it be arriving soon?” The man asked, handing him the reins.

He mounted the horse with a slight difficulty, his legs stiff and aching from all the walking. “They will not. Lead me to my father, I need to report to him first.”

The soldier saluted and rode ahead through the camp’s gates and then through the maze of tents, leading him towards a freshly erected building that Elendur assumed was the new headquarters. 

Isildur must have been informed of his arrival, as he was already waiting outside. 

“Son, what happened? Are you hurt? Where’s your host?” 

Elendur dismounted and nearly stumbled into his father’s arms. “I’m fine, but everyone else has been slain, to the last man,” he mumbled. He felt the stiffening of Isildur’s shoulders and the next moment he was ushered inside, away from prying ears.

His father led him to what looked like his study, and poured him a cup of water before gesturing him to sit.

“First of all, tell me if there’s an imminent danger and should we prepare for a fight.”

“No, I don’t think so,” Elendur shook his head, then took a few sips of water, using that moment to gather his thoughts. “Three days ago at dawn we were attacked by the Southrons. They must have moved quietly, as the guards didn’t blow the horn until it was already too late. By the time everyone realized what’s happening, we were already overwhelmed by the enemy’s force. I was grabbed and held in place by two warriors, watching as my men were slain…” his throat constricted for a moment, and he had to inhale deeply to regain his composure. “Then, I was approached by the Haradrim leader. At first I thought that he was some kind of general, but his men referred to him as Ar-Tudnas, king of Harad and Umbar. Do you know anything about him?”

“Ar-Tudnas? No, it’s the first time I’ve heard this name,” Isildur’s face was grim as he said this. “This is grave news indeed. I had hoped that with Ar-Pharazôn’s death, their accursed country would fall into disarray or even civil war, but it seems that we aren’t going to be so lucky.”

For a moment Elendur was shocked at the callous way his father was wishing another nation to be divided by yet another war, before he told himself that Isildur was simply being pragmatic. 

“We may not know him, but he certainly knows enough about us. The moment he lay his eyes on me, he knew that I was your son, and he spared my life so that I could deliver a message,” he admitted.

His father huffed. “What message would that be?”

“That all lands south of Anduin are off limits for our people.”

Isildur gritted his teeth angrily and started pacing around the study, small as that room was. “The nerve…! This has always been a no-man’s land, no one has ever lay claim to it–”

“Until now,” Elendur pointed out. “Ar-Tudnas claims that this is his domain, and that every man or woman setting foot there will be killed without hesitation. And that’s not even the worst part.”

“That’s not the worst? What is it, then?” Isildur’s knotted brows betrayed his apprehension.

“He was able to sense the palantír’s presence even without entering my tent, and he confiscated all my possessions,” he said bitterly. 

His father paled. “This Haradrim has got his dirty hands on a seeing stone? Merciful Eru… It explains why the remaining stones have been malfunctioning of late.”

“I’m sorry, father, I know that you entrusted me with the stone and I should have protected it, but I couldn’t do anything…” Elendur licked his lips nervously. “This foreign king, he– he put a blade to my throat, he could have easily killed me then…” 

Isildur pressed his lips into a thin line. “Losing one of the seeing stones is nothing short of a disaster, and we will be having words, you and I, about what steps did you take to secure your camp. Still, I am glad to see you unharmed. Now go get some rest, since the use of palantíri is no longer safe, tomorrow we’re heading west to meet with your uncle.”

Elendur nodded, then exited the study with his shoulders slumped, hating the fact that he had disappointed his father so. And while the perspective of eating a real meal and lying down in an actual bed sounded heavenly, he was quite sure that he wouldn’t be getting any sleep anytime soon.

Every night since the attack, he had been waking up covered in sweat, trying to shake off a recurring nightmare of a sharp blade pressing into his skin. But in his dreams, the Haradrim king wouldn’t stop at letting him go with a warning, but would slice his neck with a stone-cold face.

Was this how his life was going to look like, being crippled with terror at something that hadn’t even happened?... He straightened, curling his shaking hands into fists. He needed to man up, to be stronger than this. And if he ever faced Ar-Tudnas again, he was going to fight him - to the death, if needed be.

***

Finding a seeing stone of all things in Isildur’s son’s possession was quite unexpected, but Thranduil certainly wasn’t going to complain. He had always been curious how these enchanted artifacts worked, and he felt quite elated at having the chance to learn more about them. However, before attemptting to use one, he wanted to wait for the Dark Marshall to come back from his mission, though. Fuinur, being a Dark Mage himself, would more likely sense that anything was amiss while observing him, rather than just a regular guard.

When Fuinur returned with his half of the troops, Thranduil asked him to report to his tent immediately.

The Dark Marshall bowed low upon entering. “The area has been cleared, your majesty. We have successfully forced all the inhabitants of the preexisting settlements to vacate them and travel north.”

“Did you encounter any resistance?” Thranduil asked, twirling wine in his goblet absentmindedly.

“There were a few rebellious villagers here and then, but once we made an example of them, other peasants fell in line and left their homes without complaints. There was one small settlement in which a woman was giving birth as we arrived, so I gave them an additional day to vacate the area, and I left a dozen of my people to ensure that the order would be followed. I hope that is acceptable, your majesty.”

“It’s perfectly fine. We’re not a wild horde like the Easterlings, after all, we're a civilized nation. Thank you, Marshall. I have an additional task for you, though,” Thranduil pointed at the chest standing by his side. “Open it.”

When Fuinur opened the lid and saw the palantír inside, he jumped back, startled. “Is that–”

“A seeing stone, made in the Undying Lands in the Years of the Trees by the Noldor,” Thranduil confirmed. “I intend to connect with it, and I require you to guard me during.”

Fuinur bowed low. “As you wish, my king.”

As his hand hovered above the stone, Thranduil could sense the storm raging inside, and he grinned widely, showing off his teeth. This was going to be quite a challenge, but he was more than ready for it.

He put his hand on the palantír’s smooth surface and threw himself right in the middle of the raging power and its wild fury. The magic sealed in the stone had been contained for so long it longed for release, and he couldn’t fault it. He would rage too, having been trapped for so long, forced to do the bidding of lesser men. 

Instead of attempting to harness the magic, he opened himself to it, letting it fill him and flow through him. He didn’t try to direct it in any way; he didn’t need any visions of the future, or the knowledge of the far lands, as he already possessed it all. He only longed to feel the palantír’s unbridled power - and so without heeding the danger, he let it fill his veins with lightning. 

In the back of his mind, he heard his own gasp, but he didn’t pay it any attention. He was magic taking shape, both Light and Dark at the same time; he was a bridge between day and night, creation and destruction. Unchained, never tamed. Everchanging, like the magic itself.

In that moment, he understood what he needed to do, and he didn’t even stop to consider the consequences. As he released the power trapped in the stone underneath his palm, he heard a thunderous crack as if the world itself broke in half, and the palantír shattered into a thousand pieces. He fell to his knees, overwhelmed by the vision that for a fraction of a second flooded his mind, a vision of seven other stones.

He heard Fuinur’s voice, calling his name, asking what happened.

“The palantíri are no more, I released their power,” he said hoarsely, then added: “All eight of them.”

And by destroying the stones, he unchained the magic inside, just as it should be.

Chapter Text

Removing the shards of the shattered palantír that had embedded themselves in Thranduil’s body took several hours. The healer attending to him even admitted that he couldn't say with full confidence that he had managed to find them all, as some were as small as a head of a pin. 

“What would happen if the remaining shards were left embedded in my body?” Thranduil inquired.

“They might cause inflammation and be expelled from the body with blood and pus. On the other hand, if there is no infection, they would eventually become buried under scar tissue and could stay that way for months or even years,” the healer advised as he finished wrapping a bandage around Thranduil’s wounds. “These callouses would be quite small, but they would still mar your skin slightly, your majesty.”

Thranduil shrugged. “How they would look matters not as I intended to cover my body with tattoos either way. Thank you for your assistance.”

While in the right circumstances he could be quite vain and fastidious about his looks, the more tumultuous the times, the more pragmatic he tended to be about his appearance. Especially since these were no mere glass shards; bearing scars from shattering the fabled palantíri was quite a small price to pay. His palms had taken the most brunt, but his forearms and torso had been pierced with quite a large number of glass pieces as well.

Later in the evening, the Dark Marshall entered his tent, one of his fists curled around some kind of object. Thranduil straightened, then raised his eyebrow curiously as Fuinur revealed Herumor's ring of power.

“You left it in my possession for safekeeping, but I admit that I have been wearing it from time to time, when I wasn't in your presence,” Fuinur admitted. “Forgive me, my king.”

“What made you confess?” he asked, intrigued.

“You held the power of the seeing stones in your palm, and you still decided to shatter them. That required an enormous amount of willpower - which, despite my own considerable strength, I do not possess.”

“What temptation did the ring use to lure you to wear it? What did it whisper to you?” Thranduil inquired, genuinely curious about which of the man's weaknesses the ring had used to manipulate him.

Fuinur ducked his head with shame. “Immortality.”

Ah. Death, the Gift of Men and the Curse of Men, was Fuinur's greatest fear. He shouldn't be surprised, really. 

“Immortal life is a huge boon, I don't dispute that, but it comes at too high a price. When an Elf is slain or fades, their fëa is called to judgement by the Valar, the same Valar whose authority I reject with every fiber of my being. So you see, I have even more to fear when it comes to dying than you do. At least when you die, you do not need to answer to anyone,” Thranduil said with some bitterness that he couldn't entirely hide. “And the ring would have stripped you of that freedom. Eventually, you would have become a mindless wraith without a will of its own, serving Sauron without an ability to resist. Is that the kind of immortality that you want to trade your freedom for? Is becoming a disembodied slave for an eternity worth it?”

“No, it is not,” Fuinur shook his head vehemently, and offered him the ring on an open palm.

Thranduil took a silver chain off his neck and added Herumor's ring to the one that he'd already been wearing - the one that had originally belonged to none other than the Dark Marshall. 

He clasped Fuinur's shoulder, careful as to not put too much pressure on the bandage on his palms. “You have more willpower than you give yourself credit for. Hold your head high, Marshall, and when your life inevitably comes to an end, be it tomorrow or within two hundred years, remember that it does not matter how long you have lived, but if you kept your faith and lived by the values you swore to uphold. That is the true measure of a man.”

***

In the following years, Thranduil put all his effort into raising the Haradwaith empire to the heights yet unseen. He had given Fuinur and his legion the task of guarding the northern borders, both against Gondor and Mordor, allowing the country proper to develop and grow. During dry seasons, he regularly summoned rain to keep the soil adequately watered, allowing the fields and orchards around Umbar to double or even triple their size. He also made sure that every single subject of his had an assigned role and knew their duties, from sweeping streets or working in the mines, to commanding the imperial armada.

He demanded dedication and hard work from all his people, but he also gave in return. He ensured that there was always funding available to alleviate homelessness, hunger and disease, and he had ordered a sewage system to be built in Umbar, making it cleaner and healthier than ever before. By opening the royal coffins, he had funded craft-focused schools in all major towns and cities throughout the empire, allowing everyone to learn any profession they had a knack for, regardless of their background. He also took it upon himself to train the next generation of soldiers, showing them the way of the sword and teaching them how to fight against a superior opponent such as him.

There were obstacles along the way, of course, including an unplanned war with Khand once they had raided Harad's eastern provinces. Ironically, he had actually been glad for an opportunity to satiate some of the bloodthirstiness that getting his tattoos back had incurred in him. He had gathered his freshly trained army and had marched on Khand without delay, communicating with Fuinur - who had deployed half of his own legion for this campaign - via the Unseen world. They had literally crushed Khand's armies between them, with Fuinur's forces acting as an anvil, while Thranduil’s had been the hammer that finished the deed. Without losing momentum, he marched on the capital, killed Khand's ruler, and obtained yet another ring of power in the process, then incorporated Khand into the Haradwaith empire.

All the while, Sauron had remained silent, but Thranduil knew that this would not last. Just as he was sure that Arnor and Gondor harbored a deep hatred towards him for destroying the palantíri; sooner or later, Isildur was going to feel powerful enough to test Gondor's strength against Harad's. Thranduil was anticipating this all along, and made sure to prepare his country for the upcoming wars.

***

Idhrenon breathed deeply, taking in the scent of the sea, sharp and salty, but also fresh and invigorating at the same time. No matter how long he might have sailed these waters, he would never tire of it.

He double-checked the ship's rigging before going back to his post on the crow's nest. Ever since he had climbed to the ship's foretop for the very first time, he had known that this was going to be his favorite place to be. That might also be the reason why after having nearly two decades of experience on the sea, he hadn't tried rising in the ranks. That, and he wasn't a leader by nature.

When he reached the foretop and gazed upon the horizon, he stiffened at the sight, then reached to frantically ring the bell mounted on the foremast, alerting the bridge of the danger. With an Elven speed and grace, he slid down the ship's rigging.

“What is it, what have you seen?” The captain asked, salt-and-pepper brows knotted together in evident worry.

“A foreign armada sails towards us. Forty great ships with even more smaller vessels,” Idhrenon reported, then bit his lips. “Their banners show seven silver stars.”

Which meant Arnor or Gondor forces, and they both knew what it meant for their own ship. Theirs was a medium-sized cargo vessel, suited for trading and transporting goods; they neither had the speed to flee, nor the means to fight such an overwhelming force.

“Put up a white flag, captain,” Idhrenon demanded, a cold determination settling in his very bones.

The first officer bristled at his tone. “Remeber your place, you're not the one giving orders here.”

“In any other situation, I would agree, but I am the only one on this ship who's blood-bound to our king,” he said firmly, then ignored the first officer and focused on the captain. “I need someone from the crew to willingly sacrifice their life, to ensure that I have enough power to contact him via our bond and warn him of the danger. And I need to get a beating, nothing truly damaging, just enough so that I look like a proper captive.”

The captain regarded him with an unreadable expression on his face. “You mean to pretend not to be one of us just to save your own skin, aren't you.”

“If I manage to weasel onto one of their ships under false pretenses, I might manage to learn what their plans are, and pass even more information to our king. They are the Faithful, they would not even stop to think that an Elf might be their enemy,” Idhrenon explained impatiently; they did not have the time to bicker, not now. “If I manage to keep my life in the process, it will be an additional boon, but not my ultimate goal. What say you?”

The man exhaled slowly, then gave him a curt nod. “As you wish. As for the life sacrifice… I shall do it. I am the captain of this ship, it needs to be me.”

Idhrenon blinked, surprised, then bowed low with respect. “I shall pass the tale of your courage to our lord. Your sacrifice will be remembered, this I swear.”

He didn't know what the future held in store for him; if their enemies would believe him, or if they would see through his deception. But he had once been subjected to torture and no matter how painful and debilitating it had been at the time, he had survived it to grow even stronger. He could survive it again if needed be.