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Disclaimer: I do not own the Lord of the Rings (and associated) book series, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
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Feud
www.feud.shadowess.com
by erobey, robey61@yahoo.com
Beta'd by Sarah AK

Disclaimer: The recognised characters and settings used in this fiction were created by JRR Tolkien. The words, other characters, and ideas here surrounding them belong to erobey alone. No infringement is intended or monies earned through this work.

A/N: Many chapters ago, (Thavron ar Aran) it was mentioned that Thranduil's grandmother was of the Green Elves and dwelt in Region.

Tolkien tells us the Sindar probably did not immigrate to Greenwood until early Second Age, before the building of Barad-dûr (SA c.1000). I am thinking, though, that the Sindar would not be happy living in Lindon with the Noldor, right after the second kinslaying. So I have taken liberties again and made Thranduil's childhood take place in Beleriand but that Oropher and his folk left before the death of Thingol and the destruction of Nargothrond.

Tolkien also tells us in 'The Hobbit' that Mirkwood had an Enchanted River, Magical Gates and the Wood Elves could make and extinguish fires instantaneously. So, what's the connection and how did all that come about? Here's my idea, and as usual, it is dark.

Fîr Úgerth (Mortal Sins)

Truth, reflected the Wood Elves' King. Those that would describe it a concept beyond the bounds of Arda, arising in the heart of Eru, sung with the voices of the Ainur, cherished for the clarity of knowledge it lends and the fortification of conviction in right action; those folk know but a slender phase of truth, failing to see the dark enshrouded fullness of its real nature. It is a rending dagger, a brutal master, unrelenting, unforgiving in its demands for fealty, lacking compassion or concern, caring but for its own revelation and preservation, no matter the wounds such devotion causes upon adherents to its rigid creed.

And bitter musings were these for Thranduil to harbour as he gazed upon his twelve-day-old prince and heir, who slept in peaceful repose after the strenuous torments of the daylight hours. Yet he could not halt the turn of his thoughts, even the beauty and promise revealed in the infant's existence could not move his mind from the dark and rancid considerations Meril's words had spawned.
Truth is death, even for immortals, and thus have the eldar been told falsehoods and pandered to in deceit by the Valar and their servants. Truth is sorrow and anguish, and thus are families ripped asunder, beloved kin sacrificed to maintain the lie of Eru's love and the Powers' care. Who among Eru's elite joined his children in the Last Alliance? Not one, not even a single, simple servant of the humblest Maia, not one among the Valarindi (children of the Valar) would stand and lend the aid of their mighty strength! That is truth, and as it lies in the shallows of the Mere of Dead Faces so it resides in the broken lands and buried bones of all my father's ancestors, crushed beneath the weight of water from the Great Sea. 'The Sundering Sea', that at least is an honest designation.

As the vision of the separating shield of salty fluid, ever restless, never at peace, always sighing in mourning or raging in fury, inundated his inward gaze, a memory of Ningloriel was superposed upon it. She appeared indulgent and smiling, clasping the hand of her elfling, leading him through her haven of flowers to play amid the maze. The child was radiant in joy and cavorted at her side, cherishing the touch of her possessive grasp, sending his love to her soul silently through the dancing azure deeps. And the crashing sound of the ocean's song changed, becoming as a lament, while the shrill calls of sea-birds gliding above the swells were too like the crying of his first-born all those centuries ago.

Thranduil cautiously caressed the infant's crown of golden down once more and turned away. No such parting shall Taurant endure and Echuiross shall have her Naneth's counsel for the days of her maturity, he vowed.

He left the nursery and his apartments, not deigning to look in on his consort or his daughter, taking the back stairs, hurrying away from the future he had laboured so many centuries to bring to fruition, hastening into the past where the seeds of it lay buried deep in the heart of the mountain. Such hopeful determination had sowed those grains of potential into the fertile soil of possibility, so diligently had he toiled to ensure that chance would sprout into substance. His efforts had been rewarded and he had tended the tenuous germinations reverently, for what sacred fluids he had used to water the seedling dreams, how precious the vital energy employed to protect and nurture the slender shoots!
How is my truth any less pure than others' might be? Why should my will not bend the fates, for is not Arda my domain, prepared for my kind, given unto us? I have as much right to decide destiny as any that have abandoned Middle-earth for the security of those protected shores. They sit back and watch, sighing for the marring of their grand design, but keeping clear of the work of eradicating the sickness and healing the scars. That is also truth!

By the time this point in the internal dialog was reached, Thranduil was in the vestibule of the Three Doors. Without hesitation and undaunted by the spirits dwelling within the abyssal caverns, the King reached to his neck and drew forth from beneath his high collar an elegantly designed and intricately toothed key, composed of a rarely seen alloy of mithril and gold and worn upon a fine chain of the same composition. A whispery keening filled the gloom, as the shimmer of the tool, warm from its constant contact with the Sinda's flesh, met the cool dry atmosphere of the vaults. As he fitted the implement into the entryway of the lock securing his gated treasury, the reedy wail subsided with a hushing sigh of contented peace. Noiselessly the mechanism of springs and tumblers turned and the heavy iron-barred barrier swung inward of its own volition. The Woodland King entered into his vaults and sealed the way behind him.

"Calad enni togo, gwairth, adisto lîn cairdh ym!" (Bring light unto me, betrayers; recall your evil deeds!) Thranduil intoned this commanding spell and immediately four flames flickered into smoking life within small iron braziers ensconced upon the stone walls of the tomblike chamber. The King smiled; it always gave him pleasure to see this simple magic succeed and he moved deeper into the room.

The cave was tremendous, stretching back several meters beyond the reach of the torch-light and descending down even further, for there was a great break in the natural rock floor and into this he had set a curling ladder of metal steps spiralling deep into the impenetrable gloom. There were three levels in the vault and each successive void, while smaller than the one above, was just as meticulously appointed. Every space was neatly compartmented, sturdy oak shelves reaching from ground to ceiling arranged in ranks such as one might expect in a library, their contents as rigorously catalogued. Yet no works of knowledge or scrolls of lore were herein housed.

Instead, the open cupboards were packed with casks and coffers filled with precious objects. Stores of unworked gold and mithril ore were stowed at floor level, upon the uppermost planks jewels and uncut stones of great size and equal value were sorted by type and grade in hinged boxes lined in silk. Ancient weapons and armour reposed in clever racks at hand's reach, and open baskets filled with coin of silver and gold resided at head height. The wealth of Thranduil was legendary, yet few understood the true extent of the Sinda Lord's stash.

He browsed aimlessly among the bins and boxes, poking here and there as his thoughts wandered, twirling the elegant key at the end of the exquisite chain.

The riches were protected by the three unhoused feär bound to the treasury, forestalling entry to any lacking Thranduil's leave, yet neither could these cursed remnants of immortality depart the caves' environs. These ghosts' existence was a tale of folklore, too; a scary story told to elflings that none of the silvans doubted was factual. The little ones feared the ephemeral mists and hissing threats while their parents worried about who these beings were, what manner of hold was upon them, and who had entombed them there. Speculation on the last concern covered every option from Melkor himself to Thranduil, and those that held to the latter opinion were correct.

Wise in the lore of wandering souls was the son of Oropher, knowledgeable beyond the ken of his Sinda forebears and even surpassing that of many of the silvan subjects he ruled. Yet for Thranduil there was nothing supernatural or mysterious about the power he possessed; it was all a result of the Valar and their cowardly retreat from Arda so early in its making.
Their lies and deceits! All they did was for their own glory; else they would not have deserted Eru's Children!

He had accepted the responsibility they had shunned. With that onus, to his mind, came the right to make decisions of his choosing apart from the will of the Ainur. And he did not prevaricate motives nor pretend at compassion for the Lost Ones; all that he did was to avenge the House of Oropher and nothing more.

The Noldor, he refelcted, wondered how the Wood Elves' King could have for so long a span of time resisted the influence of the Dark One, even when Sauron's most devious minions took up residence in Greenwood. They would be quite surprised to have the truth. And greater would be their distrust of the forest folk, yet unjustly so. The 'magic of the Wood Elves' it was called, spoken in hushed and suspicious breaths, but Thranduil was no silvan and none that he knew were capable of all that he had done, for good or ill. Yet it was not any Sinda that had taught him the ways of this power; that news he had learned but recently, thanks to the humble carpenter with the ominous name.

His instruction had begun shortly following his mother's death at the hands of Orcs. In those days, Oropher's people still dwelled in Neldoreth and the lure of the Nauglamír had yet to corrupt Thingol. That event would herald his family's migration, just before the War of Wrath and the destruction of all those fair lands of green trees, but at that time his father was content. When Oropher's wife went missing, lost along with most of a large hunting party, none could explain it to her youngest child.

She was gone, her body horribly torn and decayed by the time his family had at last found it. Thranduil wanted to understand how, if she was immortal, this could be. Oropher tried to explain that she was with Namo in Mandos, across the Sundering Sea. That prompted another 'why' and the grieving father was beyond the limits of his strength to give answer. Thranduil's older brother told of rebirth and their mother's return to them, some day.

"Eru designed us thus."

"Then we are not immortal; it is a lie. Why would Iluvatar give us false knowledge?"

"Such things should not be questioned nor can they be explained."

"That will not suffice!"

How Thranduil had shouted and railed against their stupidity or worse, their withholding of vital information from him, judging him either unworthy or possessing insufficient intellect to comprehend it!

"I know those tales but have never met one of these re-born elves, have you?"

"Nay, gwanur dithen! It does not happen so quickly."

"Why not? What stops them from returning her now, this instant? Have not the Valar this power?"

"Daro, Thranduil! Sîdh, hen!" Oropher had pleaded; voice ragged and eyes wild. But his son could not stop and there was no peace to be had.

How could they not give her back to him? To have called forth all of Arda from emptiness and darkness bespoke such gifts. If his Naneth's soul was still viable, then let the Ainur reconstruct her body anew. Surely this was not so hard a task for those that put on form at will as easily as he changed a tunic?

No doubt could there be that immortal existence was comprised of hroa and feä; yet few openly questioned the reason for this duality. Thranduil had demanded an explanation. Why would the Valar name them undying whilst Eru caused this division of substance? To him it was quite clear; the Powers had deliberately deceived the Children of the Stars, for in this form had the elves awakened and no other. Only if the body was subject to death was the separation of the spirit a necessity to allow for reincarnation.

"It was not meant so! The Making was marred and this was not the One's desire but that of Melkor," spoke the middle son of Oropher.

"Melkor came from Eru; his motives were not hidden. Eru allowed us to be rendered breakable. We are not treated like the children of Iluvatar, for what father would suffer his offspring to endure such horrible fates, knowing he could alter it!"

Oropher had been disturbed by his youngest son's harsh reasoning, but no argument could he make against it, for he was too well acquainted with the ruination caused by cruel weapons and the vile alterations wrought in Melkor's torture chambers. Thranduil's words had been too near his own thought to refute.

Why must these sundered souls, the child had continued, be punished, kept from their loved ones and families? For what purpose did Namo hold them locked away, imprisoned, when death was hardly the end they had sought? Murder was rightly an affront to the Valar but should retribution be demanded of the victims?

But Oropher was a warrior not a mystic and had no answer to satisfy his son. He had directed the query to his advisors and none had been comfortable with revealing such things to an elfling. Many among the Teleri held similar concerns. Aman was far away and foreign; from this distance, its Lords did indeed look cruel and cold, and the moriquendi trusted Namo least of all. Great was the number of feär roaming the open fields and dark forests, released by the horrendous acts of evil beings upon their flesh or driven by grief of spirit to reject the communion of their dual halves, ignoring the summons to be judged.

Yet one among the elders declared the child a prodigy and marked for service to just those same unhoused feär. He urged the Sinda Lord to send his son as apprentice to a spirit hunter, and this Oropher had done. Thus in his thirtieth year Thranduil had been sent to dwell with his grandmother's folk in the realm of Region, far from the trees of Neldoreth.

From her he learned of the unquenchable endurance of these spirits, the raw energy of their unending existence. Thranduil was shown how to recognise their presence and soon discovered on his own how to distinguish one from another and determine what had caused each to lose its carnal half. Before too many years it came to be that he could hear them, too, and always were they crying and whispering to him after that. Unceasingly they implored and begged, pleaded and cajoled, and sometimes threatened.

What they wanted was a place to dwell. The Wandering Souls were not happy in their noncorporeal state, longing for substance to reanimate that they might carry on with their designs. Some desired for vengeance upon those that had destroyed them. Others yearned for a means to rejoin loved ones, most of whom feared this ethereal displacement and fled in dread if such presence was discerned. Many feär were simply weary and wanted nothing more than an end to the torment. For it was a torture unaccounted to hear, observe, know and feel all as they had before yet be doomed never again to be looked upon in love, listened to, touched or recognised by any that had held them once so dear. The pain of it was unbearable.

Thranduil had thought he would succumb to madness under this constant barrage of demands and pleas. At that time his mentor deemed him ready to learn the ways of casting. She taught him the proper spells and incantations, where best to deposit such tormented beings, how to establish the proper limits of confinement, the means to make the binding permanent if so the soul desired, requirements for breaking the entombment and who should have the right to do so.

The structure of the world took on new dimensions.

Thus Thranduil understood the nature of Ents and their strangely sentient herds. The restless qualities of flowing water became explicable, as did the voices of winds and the strong kinship felt between the Laiquendi and their wealds. Suddenly, the Girdle of Melian was open to his comprehension, and it was not a thing abhorrent to him, that wall of linked and merged spirits strung throughout the trees, jumbled into an impenetrable force of protection for all the Lost Ones' beloved kin within the shelter of Doriath.

And in learning this, Thranduil figured out, without his mentor's aid or knowledge, how to bind feär to himself. In his innocence, he did not comprehend that this was what the Valar feared and the reason for Namo's keeping. By such bonds had Melkor joined living souls to the perverted flesh of Orcs.

The young one understood the potential power at his command. Melian had chosen only those feär strongly connected to the welfare of family, ones that wished to prevent their fate from befalling any other elf. Thranduil, however, sought out the souls of the vengeful, angry ones and tested his newly acquired skills. But he was elfkind, not Ainu. Controlling them, he soon discovered, was more difficult than it had at first appeared.

One needed their acceptance, and to get it had to offer them something in exchange or be able to wield a threat of doom over them. As soon as the spirits learned he could do neither, was merely a child, their wrath was terrible and he had no peaceful rest. Having a legion of infuriated souls bound to him, haunting him night and day, was most unpleasant and in desperation he had dispersed his invisible army into the willing flow of the River Aros.

After that, his progress halted, for his mentor perceived by his questions what he hoped to achieve and attempted to turn his heart away from such darkness, as she called it. Thranduil grew impatient and left her, for he had no wish to become a spirit hunter in service, but instead to be the most dreaded warrior to rise up against Melkor's evil legacy since Fingolfin. It amazed him that none had sought to utilise their fallen brethren this way before and he swore that, with or without aid, he would discover what he needed to achieve his goal.

He returned to his father's lands and took up the life of a warrior, for by then he was nearly of age. As the years passed it seemed his blood had cooled and he had discarded his youthful desire for retaliation upon those who had taken his mother's life, and those who had refused to return it. But Thranduil never forgot what he had learned nor tired of thinking on how to control the forces he could ensnare, seeking always a means to bend them to his will. He derided the holy might of the Valar, hiding in fear of one of their own, and mocked the glory of the Maiar, scurrying at the beck and call of the Powers. In the Ages to come, he alone among the elves scoffed at Rings of Power, knowing whence such puissance derived.

Soon enough, the fall of Beleriand was forewarned to Oropher, and he assembled as many of his kinfolk as he could influence and set out from their homeland forever. It was on that fateful trip and the skirmish among the Wood Elves that Thranduil at last had the answer revealed to him. He could bind any silvan soul to him and force it to yield to his will under two conditions: the Lost One must owe a blood debt and be either desirous of remedying it or terrified to face Namo. Among the Wood Elves, if the foremost condition applied, usually both of the latter were also in effect. The first feä he snared in Greenwood belonged to the elf that had felled his cousin.

Still, he had not solved the problem of how he might direct this power beyond establishing a protected realm for his people after the manner of Melian, and so this he had broached to Oropher. To his disappointment, the elder Lord had rejected the idea completely, saying the ways of Thingol had lead to the downfall of the Sindar and only the silvan folk had existed undisturbed for all the Ages and endured the Wars of Beleriand. Oropher was happy to abandon the ideas of wealth and power as defined in those times. Besides, he did not believe the might of the Maiar was founded in the essence of unhoused feär and cautioned Thranduil that such things were far above the skill of the First-born to master.

Thranduil was adamant and sought to prove his words, revealing the spirit he had tamed to his will. He made the bound ghost move objects and write on glass, toppling goblets of wine and groaning to divulge its presence. To his surprise and mortification, his brothers had scoffed at these 'parlour jokes' and 'jester's tricks' while his father had grown pale and demanded the enslaved soul be released at once. His youngest son had agreed, and that had been the first and only lie Thranduil ever spoke to his father, for he had kept the spirit all these many centuries since then.

In practice he returned to duty, training with his warriors and complaining against the silvan ways of hiding in the forest. Yet the Wood Elves would not reprimand him for Thranduil's soldiers were fierce fighters and ventured far among the trees, pursuing Sauron's foes where they hid and routing them from the Greenwood. Beyond this, he and his troops were gone from the wilderlands for long years and none knew what paths they travelled. When they returned it was always in high spirits and rich attire, seated on finer steeds than had borne them away, bedecked with armour and jewels and laden with wealth. The simple forest folk had never seen such noble warriors and called them princes and lords, naming Oropher their king because of it.

Oropher approved none of this. Everytime his son arrived home angry words flew between them. He had no wish to be a King upon Arda. He heard the gossip trickling in through Dale and Erebor that claimed Thranduil sought adventures but only if he could profit by them. The might of the Sinda army was for hire, a disreputable career in his mind, for there should be no price demanded to free those in evil's thrall.

Thranduil saw no dishonour in his actions, for he had rid many oppressed lands from the dread of trolls, goblins, Orc hordes, and evil Men. If the peoples of those regions wished to share with him the stolen wealth the tyrants had amassed, why was this unseemly? How else was he to pay his way and reward his warriors for such risks? How could he otherwise afford the price charged by the dwarves for their service in rendering metals into weapons? And, though he did not speak of this, how else could he buy the silence of the Naugrim when he cast souls into the molten metal of blades and shields as protection against all manner of Darkness?

The disagreements between them were unbearable to Thranduil, who had only hoped to prove to his father the benefit he could provide, while Oropher feared his son's successes were due to an unseen force at his beck and call. In this he was far from truth, for Thranduil had no desire to corrupt living bodies for his captured spirits to possess. But the distraught father could not see this. In his inner heart, he thought Thranduil was becoming tainted with the poison of power-lust, a vile disease for which he knew not the cure. In his despair for the darkening of his youngest's feä he turned even more to the ways of the silvan folk and rejected the wealth Thranduil sought to bestow upon him.

Well it all came to a bitter end, for Oropher answered the call to arms when Sauron boldly flaunted his power at the close of the Second Age. Yet the Sinda Lord and his oldest sons refused to take up the armour or the swords Thranduil had made for them, imbued with the protection of living essence such that no arrow could penetrate nor any steel dent it. They were suspicious of his sudden gifts, as though he would bring them harm, and his heart was sore for this. In desperation Thranduil had counselled against Oropher's frontal assault, to be silenced by the scathing reprimands of his brothers naming him disloyal and a coward. Thranduil would have struck them down but for the hurt this would have caused his sire.

As they charged forth from among the gathered host of elves and Men, Thranduil called on many souls to guard his father and the Wood Elves. Thus he learned that his hold over them was less than a strand of silk before a storm's gale, and the might of Sauron could not be held back that way. What could houseless feär do in the face of such concentrated evil? Nothing. In horror he had beheld the demise of his brothers and father while he and his troops remained untouched, for their armour was enchanted and withstood the attack.

It had availed him naught, the knowledge he possessed. His mentor had been right those long centuries past. The gift was not designed to yield might and power but only to grant peace and comfort. He had not avenged his mother and he had lost Oropher and his brothers also.

He had failed.

He understood now why the Wood Elves' ways repulsed him; all of their religion and customs and laws centred on the sanctity of these individual souls and the need to protect and aid them either to find the way to Mandos in dignity and honour or become immersed within Tawar. He had accorded them only his scorn, contempt, and condemnation. That day he had added hatred and rage.

In his sorrow and grief and guilt for the loss of his father, indeed his entire family, Thranduil had cursed the dead that had not aided his father along with the warriors that had lost their lives at Oropher's side. Every one of them he had named betrayers, commanding their return to Greenwood, sinking most into the Forest River to do in death what they had failed to do in life. Others he sent into the trees, to shield the Greenwood's pathways from discovery by outsiders.

And three he cast into the gates and locks of his stronghold's vaults, setting upon them a binding spell that could only be removed by those bearing the heritage of Oropher in their blood.

Thus began the reign of Thranduil, King of the Woodland Realm.

He scowled, slipping the chain with the key back around his neck, disregarding the distant, miserable railing of the spirits as he moved through the chamber and started down the steps, calling for light as descended. He could not undo his wrongs but he would accept the responsibility for them. He must focus on Taurant and the future of his Realm. Thranduil's fingers glided over the smooth cold iron of the handrail, poured from the same metal that had generated the enchanted doors.

He had designed the form of the gates while a dwarf craftsman had devised the clever lock and key. Had any Sindarin elf seen the eerie incandescent glow of iron boiling in smelting vats? Had any observed as the ores were blended and purified, endured the scorching heat that singed hair and the noxious smells that affronted lungs? Certainly no silvan had. Thranduil had done so with careful and eager scrutiny.

His plans had been so certain then, the future clearer than gravel viewed through crystalline water in a shallow stream. Thranduil would restore the esteem of his father's House. This would take time. An Elven King required hidden halls, noble courts, valiant armies, and heirs. To supply the first, a host of dwarven miners he had hired to delve a mountain fortress and fashion the metal for its portals, offering in payment whatever precious gems or veins of ore might be uncovered. The second was ready to hand, established by Oropher and Iarwain. His Sindar warriors would rebuild their forces, and for heirs he had chosen Ningloriel.

He had believed for long centuries after their marriage that she was the instrument chosen by the Valar to punish his blasphemy, heresy, and wilful pride.
Indeed, until this evening I thought myself the persecuted one. But Namo and Vairë are far more subtle and devious than I credited them to be. They mean to torment my children and have me observe their suffering, helpless to aid them. Once more, the Powers choose to exact restitution from the innocent.

And Thranduil's sins were dreadful and many, but the last surpassed them all.

When the metal-smith had poured out the thick orange lava of the molten metal into the moulds, Thranduil had dodged the showers of sparks and hissed under a stinging spatter of misty fire. Before the liquid could freeze he spoke one last time a spell of casting, imprisoning the three remaining souls captured at Dagorlad. With that he had sealed away the tragedy of his past to safeguard his offspring's future, or so he had thought.

That final sorcery had cost him a full third of his amassed fortune as payment for the wily dwarf's silence. This was Grôl, who would later emigrate with Thráin I to Erebor. He had come at the summons of the Sinda Lord, bringing his best stone cutters, jewel-smiths, and metal-rights out of the Blue Mountains with him. Much had been promised them of the riches in Orod Im'elaidh but in fact little of value had been discovered, barely enough to cover the dwarves' expenses. Now Grôl would be paid ere his people departed.

Thranduil relented rather than have his deed told beyond his borders, for Grôl had seen the malice in the King's heart when this act was done, and held it like a dagger to his throat.

Three souls he had bound to the gates. One belonged to the silvan that had slain his cousin all those long years ago; it passed into the substance of the iron bars. The other two were his brothers in life and the fate he had reserved for them was the harshest, for they had counselled his father to ride to his death and cautioned him to reject the armour that would have spared him. One half of each feä he had sealed into the machinery of the locks, and the remainder was frozen within the key about his neck.

Tbc
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