Hello! I'm Erlossivor, which in the Elvish language means "single snowflake".
Legolas and Thranduil's relationship was never expanded upon in the movies, and even less so in the books, so I came up with this to sort of get the ball rolling, at least in my own interpretation of their relationship. Enjoy!
...
Oh my child, this is a fate I had never even thought to hope and pray that you would not suffer. I never imagined that you would ever have to endure the overwhelming agony that I once was forced to bear, and my heart shouts at me to make this all better – to make it all right once more. But I can't.
My little one, I cannot fix this.
This is not the result of a vigorous training session – simple bumps and bruises are the least of your worries. This is not the result of a battle against the Orcs that constantly threaten to overtake us – there is no arrow making a home in your flesh. This is not the result of poison slipped into your wine glass at dinner – you are not slowly fading away from me.
No, this is so much worse.
I can remember how much it hurt, Tithen Las. I can remember the fire melting away my pale skin as if it were nothing but candle wax, and the all-consuming anguish I had to swallow as the healers cleaned the wound with fresh, clean, pure water and wrapped my head in snowy white bandages that were yet to be tainted with the crimson stain of blood. Oh how I screamed. The pain was unbearable, and I had no father there to hold my hand.
But I am here to hold yours.
Your screams of agony are tortuous and horrendous, and I wish that I could take all of your pain away. I'd gladly suffer through the atrocious misery a thousand times more if it meant that you would be spared from it just this once. And if you were subjected to it again, I'd happily bear it until the end of my days.
Your pain is my pain, child. There is nothing you suffer which I do not suffer right along with you, perhaps just in a different way.
The healers are having trouble with you, my Greenleaf; I am forced to hold you down as you writhe in grievous torment while the healers cleanse the charred skin. I know what this feels like, little one. It's as if you are being scorched one hundred times more all at once. I know all too well that the agony of acquiring the injury does not even begin to compare with the aftermath. In your unconsciousness you are forced to bear the agony alone, and that is something that grieves my soul deeply. I am unable to offer you any comfort beyond simply touching your hand or stroking your blond hair.
I am unaware of how the inferno first latched itself onto our forest, but I do, however, recall where I was when this whole ordeal began.
I had myself barricaded behind thick stacks of books and papers when Carningil stumbled in shouting something about an grievous fire pouring over the tall, dark trees surrounding the palace stronghold, and how families that had lived peacefully just outside the protective gates were flooding in to seek any sort of shelter from the flames and ash. It was then that I was brought out of my distracted trance enough to give aid to those in desperate need of it.
But the entire time, the only thing on my mind was you – how far away you were from the palace, how far away you were from the deadly firestorm, and how far away you were from being snug and secure in your own chambers where I could tuck the blankets around you and retell the same story about your grandfather in battle commanding warriors and swords, just as if you were a young elfling again.
The blaze was still alight when your patrol finally returned, well into the darkness of nightfall and many hours after it was due. I swear I could hear my fragile heart pounding in my chest as I raked my eyes over the returning warriors, praying I would see white gold swimming among the small pond of auburn and brown. I did not.
I was on the verge of panic and breakdown when the small crowd of warriors broke apart to reveal your lieutenant carrying a limp form in his arms. He fell at my feet with your broken body in his gentle, but strong, embrace.
Somehow, we ended up in the healers' ward, holed up in a private healing room with six skilled, persevering Elves, cleansing and dressing your wounds with tender care and precision. There were gashes on your leg which proved to be no trouble; our head healer, Lynnaes, washed them out and wrapped them in cloth quickly and efficiently, allowing her deft hands to be lent towards the injury that was giving the other healers a serious challenge – the burn that had painted itself across the entire right side of your beautiful face.
Your lieutenant tells me that you obtained the scald while pulling one of your novice warriors out from under a burning limb, at which point the flames jumped at the chance to lick your face in excruciating heat. As agonized as I am watching you thrash about in your anguish, my heart swells with pride. You saved a precious life ion nin, putting yours at risk in the process. While that frightens me to no end, I cannot help but be immensely proud of your bravery and selflessness. You are everything a prince should be.
Dawn is quickly approaching. As I look out the open doors of the balcony by your bed I can see faint traces of pink and purple painted just above the tops of the trees that had been mercilessly stripped of their leaves by the inferno that destroyed them. The flames were extinguished not too long ago – perhaps only an hour – and you will be overjoyed to know that no one was harmed too gravely, bar you, little one.
By now, the healers have all left to give their help to other injured Elves. You are left with your malicious injuries, and I am left with my thoughts. I have not let go of your hand since you were brought to me in the arms of your brother-by-bond, and I do not plan to do so until you wake up and laugh at my haggard, sleep-deprived appearance. You will scold me for worrying over you too much and call me a "mother hen", and the words "reckless elfling" will float from my lips, along with the same five words I can never keep in during times like these. I am always fearful that I'll never get the chance to speak them to you once more, so they escape my throat before my mind has even been made up on what it is saying.
I love you, Tithen Las.
I do not say these words enough, I know, but that does not make them any less true.
I love you, Tithen Las.
I sit by your side for two days, a steadfast guardian over your prone form. I talk to you incessantly – I tell you stories and tales, sing you lullabies, and repeat those same five words over and over and over again. Sometimes, that is all that makes it out of my mouth for an hour or two.
The healers come in every so often to change the bandages wrapped around your head and replace them with fresh ones, unstained by blood. Every single time I am unable to look away from the foul wound marring your handsome face. I know that this will leave a horrific scar, just as it did for me, and that you will cry for hours upon the realization that you will never look the same again. You'll scream about how the world isn't fair and how disfigured and hideous you look and how no one is ever going to be able to love you now and "why me"? I don't have the answers you will search, yearn, and ache for. All I will be able to do is hold you my arms and reassure you that you are still the most beautiful being on this Earth because "I am your Ada and Adas are always right". All I will be able to do is soothe you by feeding you the truth that there is someone out there who will love all of you all of the time, scar or no scar. While they will hate that mark because it causes you pain, they will not hate you for bearing it. In fact, I believe that they will love you more deeply because that scar is blatant evidence of how strong you are; how tightly you cling to life; how much you persist and endure. You will tell them the story of how that flaw came to be, and I know, deep in my soul, that they will be proud of you, just as I am.
It is the middle of the night when you finally awaken. I reckon it's still a few hours before the Sun is set to rise once more, and I am on the verge of giving into sleep's sweet embrace. A gentle tug on my hand pulls me back into reality, and my eyes snap open to meet yours. The flames miraculously spared them, and the flickering glow of the candles on the table beside your bed reflects in the glassy blue orbs. Your eyes fill with salty tears, and, since I cannot wrap you up in my warm, solid embrace just yet, I take the hand that I have be clutching for two days and bring it to my chest to rest over my heart. Listening to my heartbeat has always calmed you down, but seeing as you are in no position to move much, feeling it beneath your own shaking hand would just have to do. And it did.
I run my fingers through your golden locks until you fall back into dreams. I kiss your brow and stroke your palm, trying to offer any comfort and relief I can that won't cause you further pain. Oh how I despise seeing your face twisted in pain. But now, you are relaxed in sleep, and I count that as a blessing. For the moment, you appear to me as my little elfling, not my big, brave, strong warrior son.
I can feel my body begin to slump over as overpowering worry flees from me and is replaced by the arrival of all-consuming exhaustion and lethargy. I lay my head down on the blanket and grasp your hand like it's a lifeline. I feel that if I let go, you'll disappear forever.
I don't want to lose you, Little Leaf. I cannot lose you; I will not survive if I do.
I love you, Tithen Las.
Don't you ever forget it.
...
Thanks so much for reading! I hope you enjoyed it!
~Erlossivor