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Whether the sun truly rose that morning or not, it seemed the gray wastes of the plains of Daglorlad looked just as gloomy as they had the night before. The armies of elves and men were on the move well before daybreak though, even without a sunrise to greet them. Elendil could be seen even at a distance as he rode up the hill at Gil-Galad's side. The mortal king and the High King of the Noldor led their forces out onto the cusp of the plains, arraying themselves in a broad swath of shining armor and fluttering banners of blue and gold. Oropher came after at the head of the Greenwood elves, with Amdír and the forces ofLoríen not far behind. Placing themselves to the left of Gil-Galad's columns, the Silvan kings eyed the forces of Men where they stood to the right of the Noldor. They perhaps liked it less than some that the High King of the elves should be so clearly favorable toward mortals.

Trying to look relaxed, Thranduil stood straight as an arrow at his father's elbow. The king was arrayed in his finest armor, and for the first time so was the prince. Never before had Thranduil ever worn the moulded breastplate, greaves and fauld made to fit him. A child of the forest, he was far more used to dancing along the arms of trees clad in light leather armor of perhaps even just a tunic. He was proud to be armored after the fashion of his father though, and that went far in settling the writhing of his stomach. The heads of elves and men seemed to go on forever in both directions. What army in all of Arda could possibly challenge such a force? He wondered to himself.

The answer came spilling like a dark stain over the horizon soon enough. The black gates of the Morannon were flung wide, and through them issued forth legion after legion after legion. Orcs, trolls, goblins, all manner of foul creatures had come to heed the summons of their dark master Sauron. When all thought that the lands of Mordor could not possibly contain another orc, yet another mass of them would come roiling out onto the plains.

Watching the approach of the armies of evil through slitted eyes, Oropher glanced sideways to where Gil-Galad stood at the head of his forces. The Noldorin king was composed, his great spear Aeglos standing nearly nine feet tall above the heads of all around. Oropher could not read what was in Gil-Galad's mind; the sides of his helm blocked his face from view. As it sensing eyes upon him, Gil-Galad turned and called across to Elendil at the head of the armies of Men.

"Bring the spear-bearers into the front line. Let the spawn of darkness run themselves through with the weight of their charge."

Oropher saw Elendil nod, then signal to his swordsmen to fall back and give way to the spearmen. The armies of Noldor and Men alike exchanged their ranks with swift efficiency, bringing the long spears and shields of their bearers come forward to create a bristling wall. The king of the Greenwood could have spit, if elves ever lowered themselves to such human displays of disgust. Did Gil-Galad intend for them to slink in behind the forces of the Noldo and, Eru forbid, of mortals to take shelter? Surely he must realize that they counted no spear-bearers within their ranks. The elves of and of the Greenwood did their battle either by bow or by blade; there was no in-between for them.

Sauron's army was drawing closer at an alarming pace, covering the distance from the Morannon across the plains with blood-thirsty speed. It would not be long before they crashed upon them like a thunderclap. One quick look at Amdír confirmed that the other Silvan king was just as disgruntled at the thought of having to fall back behind Gil-Galad and Elendil's ranks.

Very well then. Oropher thought. If Gil-Galad will fight this battle in his own style, then we shall do the same. Jerking his head in the direction of the approaching orcs, he indicated his intentions to Amdír.

"Adar?" Thranduil had seen Oropher's signal to Amdír, and wrapped his hand around the hilt of his sword so tightly that his knuckles paled within their gloves. The young prince was doing an admirable job of keeping his expression calm, but his blue eyes revealed the depths of Thranduil's anxiety as he looked to his father.

Speaking in a low voice just for the two of them, Oropher smiled slightly at his son. "Stay close to me, Thranduil. Mind your back, and keep your head clear." Reaching for his own hand-and-a-half sword, Oropher drew the blade and lifted it overhead.

"Gurth enin goth!"* He cried, his voice lifting above the growing chaos of the orcs. A few seconds later, slightly less enthusiastically, Amdír echoed the battle cry to his own troops. The pair of elf kings led their armies into a charge, breaking away and leaving the other two armies behind.

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"DAMN THAT OROPHER!!"

Both rage and horror whirled like twin hurricanes behind High King Gil-Galad's eyes as he watched the Lord of the Greenwood lead his troops in an early charge across the battlefield. Beside him, the human king Elendil could only join in his helplessness. The Battle of the Last Alliance was supposed to be a united effort, a last stand in which all men and elves came under the command of one banner. Which followed to reason that King Oropher was to have submitted himself and his warriors to the leadership of Gil-Galad! Clearly though, the half-wild Sindarin king of that even wilder forest had no such intentions of following another.

"My lord! Will you give us the order to attack?!"

The question came from Gil-Galad's right, and he looked to his standard bearer. Elrond was still young by elvish standards, but an upbringing under the sons of Feanor had given him a keen mind for battle. His wide brown eyes clearly mirrored his own shock at the early charge.

"What choice do we have??" Griping his glave furiously, Gil-Galad shouted to their archers. "Hado!" ** They would have to take their opportunity now, before that fool Oropher and his elves got too close to the enemy and blocked the shot. "For the free peoples!" He cried, and Elendil mirrored his call in the Westron tongue to the army of men at their side. Rushing down from the barren bluff on which they stood, they were still well behind even the slowest of the eager Silvan/Sindarin army from the north. Having kept to themselves since time unmeasured in the forest, the Silvan members of that force were clearly eager to test themselves in battle. As for the Sindarin minority which Oropher himself had brought to the Greenwood, they should have known better. That was to say nothing of Amdír and the elves ofLoríen. No doubt the silver-haired monarch had been overrun by Oropher's stronger personality. Gil-Galad could curse Oropher all he wanted though; it wouldn't save his brash neck.

Sure enough, the armies of Mordor were eager for blood, and the two forces met like a thunder-clap before Gil-Galad, Elendil and the rest of the army could catch them. By the time they reached the same ground, it was already wet with blood both red and black.

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Whatever Thranduil had been expecting of battle, it absolutely paled in comparison to the chaos of the real thing. Elves by nature were graceful and deadly warriors, but this in part depended on having the space to execute their skillful manoeuvres. There were so many orcs and other creatures on the battlefield that there was scarcely room to turn on the spot! The sheer numbers of the enemy made the fight difficult, and more than a small number of Silvan elves died for lack of fighting room or thick armor.

Skewering an orc on his sword and drawing it back with a spray of dark blood, Thranduil did his best to stay in the vicinity of his father. Oropher was a force of nature in battle, and around the Greenwood king there could at least be found a small pocket of breathing room. Amdír was hardly to be seen, but for occasional glimpses of his silver hair through the fray. For the most part Thranduil was so pressed just to keep the orcs at arm's length that he didn't even have time to remember his fear. It was the worst anarchy he had ever experienced in all his two and a half thousand years.

A keening cry rent the air, causing Thranduil to turn instinctively to find its source. He never found out who had made that dreadful sound though. The moment of distraction proved incredibly costly, as it exposed him to an orc pike-man with the build of a small troll. The brute was taller and more powerful than many of its kind; enough so that its momentum combined with a direct strike drove the tip of its pike through Thranduil's armor and into his right shoulder.

The orc kept its hold on the shaft of the short spear, continuing to bear forward. Caught off guard, Thranduil was pushed straight off his feet to land on his back. Pain bloomed like a fiery red flower all through his shoulder and across his chest. His sword, lying several feet away and underfoot of the other combatants was all but lost to him. Writhing like a worm skewered on a hook, Thranduil tried to grasp the pike and perhaps dislodge it.

A dark sharp loomed overhead though, blotting out the greyness of the sky. It's horrible features contorted in something approximating a leer, the gigantic orc grabbed hold of the pike once again and withdrew it. The burning agony and the scant relief that brought were swiftly followed by horror when the creature lifted the spear overhead and brought it down straight toward Thranduil's chest. The elven-made breastplate saved his life though; instead of piercing him through the heart where the orc had intended, the spear instead glanced off to strike the prince in the armpit. The blow drove all the breath from his lungs, and the world exploded into little black dots before Thranduil's eyes.

Frustrated and wishing to move onto the next person to kill, the orc pike-man grabbed the spear and made to lean on it. The vicious pressure felt like death itself was sitting on his chest, and Thranduil knew beyond certainty that the spear's tip would pierce his lung if it went any further. Scrabbling for a grip on the shaft of the pike to try and halt its movement, he summoned what little breath he had left to him and cried out;

"Adar!"

If there is any sound in the world that a parent can recognize even in the midst of the worst chaos, it is the scream of their child. Turning away from the skirmish that he had been engaged in, Oropher flung himself in the direction of Thranduil's cry. The entire battle seemed to shrink down to only the orc that even now was bent on killing his son. There was nothing graceful about how Oropher tackled the giant orc, sending the creature and himself rolling away locked in a vicious death-match.

All that Thranduil could see from flat on his back was the sudden streak of golden hair, and then the orc was gone. As good as pinned down by the spear lodged in the crook of his arm, the prince of the Greenwood found himself helpless to rise. Every breath was a struggle, and he thought he tasted blood in the back of his throat. Thranduil tried in vain to see his father, or even just to remain conscious. Slowly though the black shadows at the edges of his vision grew to envelope all.

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*Death to the enemy!
**Shoot!