He comes to the Rifts for a reason that ought to be apparent to anyone who knows what he is, and what he has lost. The caves do not frighten him—he was born underground; his palace is belowground. What sparks caution and mindfulness in him is the laugh that echoes through the halls. He steadies himself on his feet, swords at the ready, but the voice that echoes after the laughter freezes his blood.

Thranduil knows what he hopes for when he visits these rifts. He did not dare dream that those passed into the care of Mandos might be—

“Hîr vuin!” he shouts, echoing the words a coltish elfing once used in his court. But this time, he is armed, and there is no parents telling him to run, that the dwarves are upon them—it is so easy to flank the pride demon, to slice with the whole weight of his many years behind him, to do what he could not before—save his lord.