a/n: A one-shot about what Thranduil is thinking when Tauriel says he has no love in him; a short fic about his wife, and the mourning he goes through and it's consequences on his relationship with Legolas. Reviews are greatly appreciated. x
*inspired by the "desolation of smaug" score Kingsfoil by howard shore; I tried to describe Thranduil's wife to ideally look like Daenerys Targaryen.
The Heat And The Cold Of Your Heart
"Inside this cold heart is a dream, that's locked in a box that I keep, buried a hundred miles deep."
- Unknown
"You will go no further."
The Elven King stared at the young elf standing in his way. With bold disobedience, she stared back at him with anger in her narrowed eyes, not backing down despite the king's intimidating, arrogant demeanor and the surprised Elven soldiers faithfully behind him.
"You will not turn away. Not this time."
Thranduil snarled at her, "Get out of my way."
"The dwarves will be slaughtered."
"Yes… they will die. Today, tomorrow, one year hence. A hundred years from now. What does it matter?" The King snapped. "They are mortal."
"You think your life is worth more than their's?" Tauriel dared, drawing her bow and arrow and aiming it for the Elven King. "When there is no love in it?"
Thranduil looked at her with utter shock, infuriation, and insult.
"There is no love in you."
In a blink of an eye, the king drew his glistening, sharp sword and with one single motion, cut the young Silvan elf's bow in half. She dropped it's splintered remains in awe, staring at her infuriated king.
His teeth bared, eyes narrowed, and heart thudding in his chest, Thranduil aimed his sword at her.
He had been with her for thousands of years. And then she was just… gone.
Many elves claimed that when she died, the King died, too.
She had been everything to him.
Thranduil worried that he was beginning to forget her.
He tried, over and over, to remember her. Every smile, every laugh, every single day with her.
The feeling of her warm, soft hand interlocking with his own when she and him would take little Legolas on walks through the lush, evergreen Mirkwood Forest. The feeling of her leaning her head onto his shoulder, the look in her light blue eyes when she glanced up at him.
The smile on her face when she went out into the forest in the cold winter days, beckoning him to join her. She loved the snow; the smell of it in the winter air, the feel of it on her pale flesh. The darkening clouds above, casting a homey, comforting ambience over the forest.
"It's only snow, Thranduil." She would tease him, her voice in the midst of laughter. "You have fought the terrible orcs of Middle-Earth, almighty Elven King of the Woodland Realm. And yet you cannot handle a bit of snow? Don't be an elfling! Walk with me, hallaer."
Thranduil's stoic, serious face would soften, a smile spreading across his thin lips as he watched her. "Okay, aier. Okay."
A grin would spread across her gentle features, taking his hand in hers.
While she lived, the forest thrived.
He was worried he was beginning to forget the feeling of her slender fingers gently intertwining his hair, braiding it for him with such grace and benevolence, never tugging.
Now and then, Eaahrael would sing in a low murmur, to herself, while she sat on the end of her and Thranduil's bed and braided his hair as he sat down on the floor in front of her; a beautiful Sindarin-Elvish song that would bring a lump to form in the very solemn Elven King's throat. It was a sad lullaby; a lullaby he'd heard her sing to Legolas when he was in his cradle. Thranduil did not know why it tugged at his heartstrings like it did, but it did. Her voice, so smooth, murmuring the melancholy lyrics to him.
"Hae ephadron
theri thaur
am na dhû
ias fîr i ambar
A trehil i 'alad 'lân uir tri 'wilith… "
"I go walking
Beyond the forest
Where the world falls away
And the white light
Of forever fills the air… "
Thranduil missed her singing those calming words to him. He missed it so much it pained him, right to the core. His heart ached, his chest in literal pain, when he thought of her singing that to him.
God, how he missed her.
"There," she would say when she was done, putting her hands on his shoulders, admiring her work. She'd lean into him, kissing his cheek, and wrap her arms around his brawny frame. "More handsome than ever, a'maelamin. The most handsome king in Middle Earth."
Now that she was gone, he never let anyone braid his hair. It just wasn't the same. He was the only elf who didn't have braids, and as long as she was not there to do it for him, that would never change.
He worried he was beginning to forget her scent; ivory soap and lavender when she held him, so close. Her gentle, cool lips pressing to his.
She'd hug him, tightly, wrapping herself up in him and kissing him with tenderness. He'd hold her so tightly, as though if he let go, she'd disappear.
Thranduil worried that he was beginning to forget what her voice sounded like, how she said his name. Smooth, graceful, melodic. Knowing. He was worried he was beginning to forget the sound of her reading to little Legolas on a cold winter night.
She never was angry; she looked at life with nothing but positivity.
If she caught Thranduil being too solemn or too callous, whether it be to a guard or a prisoner, she would chastise him, saying, "Be kind, Thranduil. Be patient. And be balanced."
She was so kind, so empathetic. So patient.
The Elven King could even remember when Eaahrael had been in childbirth with Legolas. Labor had been very painful and had lasted all through the night. The young queen had been very tired, very drained; but she remained in good spirits, her eyes never leaving Thranduil.
"She is very weak, King Thranduil." A healer had said, taking the king aside, washing her hands in a basin. "I worry for her. She needs to sleep, and to regain her strength. This will not be an easy delivery, and I do not wish to risk anything that may be harmful to the queen and your unborn babe."
The Elven King had gone to her bedside with a worried look on his striking face. She looked up at him with heavy, tired eyes and a faint smile. She had weakly took his hand in hers, and sighed, "Thranduil."
"I should go. You need your rest." He had said quietly, his eyes searching hers.
She arched her eyebrows worriedly and she said, breathless, "No, I don't. I need only you."
"No, you do." Thranduil's tired eyes looked at her with guilt.
"No… vá! But I want you to. I need you here." She begged. "I am going to be alright, meleth. But only if you are here. I cannot do this… I cannot do this without you."
"Shh, it's okay." He calmed her.
"N-no. Don't go. I want you to stay."
Despite his better judgement, Thranduil had respected her wishes and did not leave her bedside while the healers tended to her during labor. He coaxed her and soothed her, coaching her and trying to help her in anyway he could. For once in his very long life, he felt helpless, frustrated, wishing there was something he could do to ease her suffering.
"Only a little harder, Eaahrael," He nurtured soothingly as she gripped his hand, squeezing hard. "You're doing so well, meleth. It's alright. You're alright. You are nearly there."
At the lateness of the hour, the young, exhausted queen had gone through hours of pain. Sweat was slick above her brow and tears streaked down her cheeks; but she stayed in good spirits. Eaahrael felt a ping of excruciating pain and she cried out, throwing her head back, grasping Thranduil's hand.
"It's alright. It's alright." The Elven King soothed her, allowing her to squeeze his hand tightly.
The king and his drained wife heard a bloodcurdling cry and the Elven healers looked up from the end of the bed. A wriggling, squirming little babe. They covered it in cloth and handed the newborn elf off into its father's arms.
Thranduil, bewildered by the child, his child, stared down at it with tears in his wide eyes and a throbbing heart. The little elf was so beautiful.
"She has bore you a son, my King Thranduil. A healthy, beautiful little prince."
The Elven King brought the babe to Eaahrael, who weakly smiled up at him, her eyelids heavy and the rosiness in her cheeks faint. "Mani naa ta? Is it a boy?"
She had never seen the king so unbelievably happy; the only time she could remember him being that way was when he married her.
He knelt down by her side and gently showed her the tiny elf that was swaddled in cloth.
"Look… look at what we made," Thranduil's voice was trembling, his eyes gleaming with tears and a smile spreading across his lips, his eyebrows knitted together in bewilderment. "Eaahrael, look at what we made."
She sighed, and tears of happiness streaked down her cheeks, and he kissed her, the squirming babe looking to his parents with awe and bewilderment.
The first few years while Legolas was still a tiny babe in his crib, he barely slept through the night. Often, Thranduil and Eaahrael would awake in the middle of the night to the cries and shrieks from Legolas's crib. A shirtless and groggy Thranduil would sit up in bed out of a deep sleep, eyes barely open, his hair in a disarray and dark circles under his eyes. Baby Legolas's shrieks echoed through the room. Eaahrael would be curled up in a ball beside him, under the quilts and blankets, and murmur sleepily, "Your turn."
On the quiet nights, Thranduil would lay in bed, Eaahrael curled up on his brawny chest; he traced circles on her bare back and they spoke in Sindarin to each other, about everything in the world. He had never met anyone he loved so much, anyone who understood him so well; she gave him a reason to be alive. Without her, he knew, he would be nothing. In bed she would joke with him, climbing on top of the king and kiss him softly; she made him smile and made him laugh. He would smile, kissing her, and would wrap his arms around her and hold her to his chest, until the slow, steady beat of his heart caused her to fall into slumber.
Thranduil was, of all things, a bit hesitant and awkward at first when it came to showing affection in raising his child. It dawned on him that perhaps he was better leading armies, fighting in battle and defending Mirkwood's borders than speaking to a child. But as time went on, Thranduil became good at it. He grew more comfortable.
The babe grew into a quite lively little elfling, and loved the attention he got from both of his loving parents.
Legolas, then a very small elfling with an elk stuffed animal in one hand, would begin tugging on Thranduil's tunic, saying, "Ada, Ada!"
Thranduil would look down to his feet. "What is it, my little leaf?"
The tiny elf, no taller than maybe three feet, would be smiling brightly up at him, hands reaching up to Thranduil. The Elven King would give him a good-natured smile and lean down, scooping the little elf up. He'd carry Legolas in his arms, settling into a rocking chair in the nursery.
The little prince would always be so thrilled when his Ada paid attention to him; he was always so busy.
Legolas would drop his elk stuffed animal to the floor beside the rocking chair and reach his little arms out to Thranduil's head.
"Ada?"
Knowing what he wanted, the patient Elven King would take off the beautiful, intricate autumn crown of berries and branches that sat atop his head and gently place it upon his son's. Thranduil had to bite back a laugh at the oversized, lopsided crown on the toddler's head.
"A true king," Thranduil would say with a serious, approving nod, a little smirk daring to cross his striking features. "And the bravest king the Woodland Realm ever did see."
Legolas would smile bashfully, feeling the crown on his little head, proud. "Look, Ada! I look just like you!"
"Yes, pen tithen," Thranduil would laugh. "You do."
The little mischievous elf would cuddle into Thranduil, his heart warm and his smile wide at the pride he had for his father.
"Shall I tell you of the First Age, my child?" Thranduil would ask, looking affectionately at his son. "Or of the adventures of your Grandfather Oropher, the great Sindarin King during the Second Age?"
The little elf would nod excitedly, staring at his father with wonder.
Eaahrael, standing just outside the nursery, loved see her husband take Legolas on his lap. She loved seeing the excitement in her son's eyes as he would cuddle into Thranduil, thrilled that his father, the brave King of the Woodland Realm, was telling him stories of the heroes before him.
The Elven King would smile and tell the little elf stories of the First Age, of the elves of Mirkwood, of Middle-Earth.
When Thranduil felt the babe nodding off, he'd speak lowly in Elvish to him, soothing him to sleep while rubbing his back in gentle, comforting motions. After listening to the gentle Elvish and the calming motions of his father's hand, Legolas would fall asleep on his chest.
"He loves you so much, Thranduil," Eaahrael would sigh, a smile spreading on her lips. "He looks up to you."
His hands would be gripping Thranduil's tunic and his cheek pressed to the elder elf's chest, creating sleep lines on his little cherubic face. Thranduil would smirk at Eaahrael, pry the child's fingers from him, and carry him over to his cradle, carefully placing the little prince down on the soft little bed.
"Quel esta, little one," Thranduil would say.
On other nights, Thranduil would take Legolas on his lap while sitting on his throne, and listen to him speak of the adventures of the day in the wood. Thranduil often wondered how in Valar's name could such a tiny little elf could talk so much. But nonetheless, the proud King stayed quiet and indulged, listening to his little son, chattering on and on about the things he saw in the Woodland Realm and the walks he took with Eaahrael during the day. Excitedly he'd speak to Thranduil, thrilled that his normally busy and powerful father was listening to him.
But Legolas's favorite, above all, was when Thranduil would play "battle" with him; in which the tiny elf and his father would pretend sword-fight with branches that Legolas had found. Thranduil would always let the little elfling win, sometimes pretending to be wounded to encourage the prince.
He looks up to you, Thranduil. The Elven King could almost hear her say it. Even now, centuries later.
In spite of this, Eaahrael had a certain way with their little elfing that he did not. She loved him more than anyone. More than life.
The Elven King would quietly go to Legolas's nursery, watching her with their son, leaning to the threshold with a little smirk on his normally stern face.
"Nana, nana!"
"Do you want me to read to you, Legolas?" A knowing, gentle smile would spread on her lips.
The little elfling would nod.
"Will you read to me?"
"Of course I will, pen tithen. Sit on my lap."
She would scoop up the tiny child and kiss him on the cheek, cuddling her son onto her lap. He'd squeal and hug her tightly around her neck.
Thranduil remembered being baffled, bewildered by her beauty. A Silvan elf, with ivory skin with shockingly light blond hair, cascading in waves past her chest with a few braids interweaving within her hair. Her face was soft, youthful; with a hint of rosiness in her cheeks.
She was not of royal blood by any means by birthright, nor was she a Sindarin elf.
His father, before Thranduil married Eaahrael, had called her a "lowly Silvan elf".
But Thranduil did not care. He loved her more than life.
She wore a long, light blue dress with gold patterns and beads and her crown was made of flowers and branches and beautiful things from the woods and the earth. On her hands she wore beautiful golden rings made from twigs. She was much shorter than her king. He loved the way she stood on her tiptoes to reach her arms around him.
Affectionately, she often called him "hallaer," meaning "tall one". It made Thranduil laugh and he loved when she called him it. He would engage in her banter and call her "aier", meaning "short one".
She would put Legolas on her lap and read to him in a quiet, gentle voice, almost hypnotic. It even made Thranduil feel drowsy.
The little prince would yawn and cuddle into his mother, holding her close.
"Are you sleepy?" she'd say with a smile and a knowing look.
Legolas would shake his head, despite the heaviness in his eyes. "No! Not yet."
"Legolas…"
"Will you read the rest to me? Please, Nana?"
Thranduil would smile faintly, admiring the enthusiasm in his son.
"Okay, little leaf. Okay. But then you must sleep." She would kiss the top of his head and continue the children's story.
"Okay, Nana."
By the end of the children's book she had read to their son, the little elf would be in a deep sleep. She would kiss him gently on the forehead, and carry him to his cradle without even causing him to stir.
"Quel kaima ion nín," She would whisper to the slumbering child, "I love you."
Thranduil would meet her eyes as she turned and she would smile back at him.
"As I do you," She'd laugh quietly, going to the Elven King's open arms, hugging him tightly.
"I love you," Thranduil would whisper lowly, his cool lips brushing against her light hair. She'd tuck her head against him, burying her face in his warm, comforting chest, his chin on her head. He'd encompass her, keeping her safe. "More than life."
Those days had since passed.
Thranduil worried that he was beginning to forget how she acted, how she talked, how she carried herself. Spunky, audacious, unconstrained. Bold, courageous. Unlike any other queen. Not snobby, not royal. She didn't act like she was the Elven Queen of the Woodland Realm. She was so down to earth, humble. She balanced him and his serious, noble demeanor out so well; often trying to get her husband to laugh a little more and break free of his sternness. Only she knew what to say and how to say it to make his grave face crack.
She was the only one who could make him smile.
The elves of the kingdom admired her, loved her for her patience and kindness; but no one loved her more than Thranduil.
He would die for her.
Thranduil was worried he was beginning to forget what she used to say. She was his voice of reason that he forgot he had; she always told him things that even he, the great Elven King of Mirkwood, never realized or often forgot to remember. He was worried he was beginning to forget the thing she always told him.
She would wrap her arms around his chest from behind, her head on his shoulder and her cool lips pressed to his ear.
"Fear both the heat and the cold of your heart, and try to have patience, if you can."
All Thranduil knew was that she wasn't there to say what she always used to say.
She walked in starlight in another world, so very, very far away from him. He would do anything to get her back, and he knew that if it wasn't for Legolas, he would have died, alone, from grief ages ago.
When he thought about it, that would not have been bad. He would be with her again. He would be with her again, walking in starlight, hand-in-hand with his beloved, in another world.
He had a choice when she died; to shut off his emotions or die, for the almighty Elven King knew that elves were able to die of grief.
He chose to shut them off for good, to keep his love shut up and hidden that no one would be able to find it ever again.
Not even himself.
He had loved her so deeply, so terribly much, so tragically so, that he couldn't bear to think of love.
He couldn't touch it. He couldn't talk about it. He couldn't even speak of it. He couldn't speak of her, and forbade anyone in Mirkwood to speak of her. He knew that was for the best, but worried that that was insulting her and her memory.
Her death plagued Thranduil like a disease, slowly eating away at the bits of cold, icy heart he had left.
He remembered trying to find her after the battle, searching the battle grounds—which was a crumbled ruin of stone, ice and snow—frantically like a lost elfing, and crying out for her. The snow fell steadily all the day.
Shouting in Elvish, he was begging her to answer. His eyes were consumed with worry, and his heart was throbbing up against his ribcage at a startling pace.
"Manke naa lle?" Thranduil had shouted, his voice hoarse with worry. "Eaahrael! Manke naa lle!"
But once the king turned the corner he got his answer in a heap of corpses, as there laid his queen; blood drenched her white tunic and her shockingly light blond hair and pale face was speckled with blood. The blood on her abdomen, from a dagger, was so red, so dark, so thick, that Thranduil did not believe it.
In that single second he knew what it was to be mortal.
The Elven King dropped to his knees on the snowy ground and choked out a sob. He took her and cradled her in his arms against his armor. He brought up his hand, feeling warmth coming from it. He looked upon it.
It was slick with her blood. A thick, crimson coating of Elvish blood, his beloved's blood, caked onto his hands.
He looked back at her, staring down at her with such guilt and such grief that he did not understand—simply could not fathom— why she gave him a weak smile.
He tucked her hair off her face and looked down at her, his whole body trembling in a horrible concoction of hatred, for whomever did this to her. Grief, for he knew that he was about to lose her. And guilt, for he knew that he should not have lost her in the chaos of the battle. He should have guarded her the whole time.
Her blood stained his black tunic and the silver of his armor, streaking it like war paint.
Eaahrael's breathing was erratic, with short, shaky intakes of breath. She saw him and sighed, her eyes fluttering; she was surely dying.
The elf reached to her husband's face and cupped his cheek; and the scars from dragon-fire showed themselves once more. They were deep, horrible scars that revealed the muscles and tissue and bone in the king's face, as well as his blind left eye.
"You're—you're going to be okay," was the only thing he could choke out.
He knew it was a lie.
She shook her head. "N-no, Th-thranduil."
Tears streamed down his cheeks, his grey-blue eyes gleaming with sadness.
"Oh, hallaer," She whispered to him, "Meleth e-gûr nîn, my brave, wise King of the Woodland Realm. I'm—I'm sorry. I'm sorry I could not have fought better for you. I'm sorry this has happened."
He shut his eyes and he held her hand close to him, as if he could battle Death's cold hands from taking her from him. "No. Farn!Dina! Tampa tanya! Be silent. Do not say that."
"Do not be afraid. Be brave," She sighed, smiling sadly up at him.
She was struggling to speak, every word shaky and every other word a sharp intake of breath. "Legolas will need you now more than ever. He will need you to teach him everything I cannot. Cormlle naa tanya tel'raa, Thranduil. You will raise Legolas to be a great king. I know you will."
"No," Thranduil choked out hoarsely, "No! Mela en' coiamin, you cannot leave me—"
"Áva sorta. Av-'osto." She said, tears filling her eyes. "Do not cry. Do not be sad. I will be waiting for you in another world and we will be together once more. We will walk through the wood in the snow again and we will be together and everything will be good. I'm going to miss you."
"Do not leave me, melamin, please. Please, don't leave me. I cannot raise him alone," Thranduil begged, his voice cracking, a lump heavy in his throat. "Cormamin niuve tenna' ta elea lle au'. How do I be brave? How do I not be afraid? I cannot do this—this life, this world—without you. I need you."
"Do you remember what—I…what I told you?" She whispered, her voice shaking.
Thranduil nodded, more tears streaking down his pale face.
"Fear both the heat and the cold of your heart, and try to have patience, if you can." She said softly.
He nodded, trying to give her a weak smile of reassurance, but he couldn't conjure it.
"Don't go," Thranduil begged.
She said breathlessly, "It's my time, my beloved."
"No, that is not true!" He said, his voice angry and devastated. "I love you, I—you cannot—Eaahrael, please, don't leave me, please."
"If you were to take the pain out of love, love would not exist, hîr vuin Thranduil," she smiled sadly, tears streaking down her very pale face as she stared up at him.
"Please, Eaahrael. Please don't go. Legolas and I need you. I cannot raise him myself. Not without you." He implored, his voice hoarse and shaking.
"My beautiful, wise, doting Thranduil," She said, "I will love you until the end of days be upon us. You are a far better husband, and you are a far better father, than anyone. You have watched over me in life. Now you must allow me to watch over you in death."
The Elven King's tears did not cease.
"You will raise Legolas to be a noble warrior and an even nobler king; just as you are. He will follow his father and be the greatest king that the Woodland Realm has ever known. You are going to go on, and live a long, long life, and you are going to raise our son without me. You're going to be okay, and as will Legolas. Do you understand me?"
She was crying.
Thranduil nodded, his eyes never leaving hers.
"I will be waiting for you when it is your time," she whispered, "We'll be together again."
"Eaahrael, please."
"Hallaer," she whispered, "The world is beginning to fade away."
The disheartened King, choking out a sob, brought her closer to him. He kissed her, Eaahrael pressing her very cold lips to his, her hand still cupping his scarred face. She looked up at his scars, being very gentle, and sighed.
"Tell Legolas how much I loved him. Tell him that's it's okay to be silly, that it is okay to be mischievous. Tell him that it's okay to get into trouble and sometimes annoy his Ada."
She laughed a little through her tears, as did Thranduil.
The parents fondly recalled the time when little Legolas had taken one of Thranduil's scrolls and drawn a picture of the Elven King on it. The little elf had scurried over to his father whilst Thranduil had been talking to a few of the members of the Elven Council about the missing scroll. Legolas had tugged on his pant leg, proudly waving the paper in his hand to show his father, Eaahrael close behind him, her hand over her mouth trying to hold in laughter.
"He will be king one day. But for now, it is okay to be an elfling. Tell him how good he is. Tell him I loved him more than life."
The Elven King nodded furiously, staring at her with tears glistening in his light eyes.
"Be patient with him," She said. "He loves you more than anything and he looks up to you so much, meleth. He just wants you to be proud of him."
Thranduil nodded again, and he could hear the tears in her voice now.
"Cormamin niuve tenna' ta elea lle au'," She choked out in whisper. "A-amin m-mela lle."
"Amin mela lle." He echoed, shutting his eyes, tears streaking down his scarred face.
"You are so brave," she whispered.
"Not as brave as you."
"It's sad, Thranduil," She whispered breathlessly with a sad smile, "But life is full of sudden goodbyes."
Then the Elven King felt a startling, striking cold in the hand he held so dear. Startled, he opened his eyes and looked upon his beloved; her eyes were still open, looking up at him, and the blood still streaked her face. The rosiness of her cheeks were gone, and with a cry out, Thranduil knew that this startling coldness was in fact her soul leaving body.
"Eaahrael?" The Elven King choked out once again, his eyes darting back and forth, staring down at her. "Eaahrael, echuio! Echuio! Amin hiraetha. Amin mela lle."
He had been with her for thousands of years. And she was just… gone.
"Eaahrael! Echuio!" The last word ended in a sob from the brave Elven King Thranduil.
This beautiful creature, with a beautiful heart and a beautiful soul, the mother of his only child, his beloved, had died in the ugliest way in the ugliest place in the ugliest of times.
He quickly gathered her bloodied corpse to him and held her tightly for the last time, pressing his warm body to her cold body, holding her so dear that he too thought he would die of grief as he kneeled there in the bloody snow, alone in the howling cold of winter.
His eyebrows knitted together in dread and he cried, crying for her, for him, for Legolas. For all the time that she would not have, the things she would not see, the moments they would not share.
The thought that she would never watch Legolas grow up from elfling to king, the thought that Thranduil and she would not depart to Aman together when they too had grown old.
The time lost.
When he had times of excruciating, sharp heartbreak from missing her (which was quite often), he'd wander away, alone, ever so silently. He'd take a walk or a ride on his elk in the Mirkwood Forest like they had always used to. It was always snowing when he did so.
But even with the steady downfall of snow, the forest was slowly dying, it's once green leaves and red berries long dead and curled with decay. It was as if when she died, so did the forest. As if it knew that she was not coming back to wander and run and laugh through the trees. It was as if the forest had died from grief from her passing.
While she lived, the forest thrived.
Thranduil would go through the woods and remember.
He'd remember the warm, soft hand interlocking with his. He'd remember the feeling of her head leaning on his shoulder. He'd remember the melodic, graceful sound of her voice. He'd remember the smile on her face as he watched her in the snow as it fell. He'd remember the feeling of her lips pressing against his.
He'd stop at the entrance of the woods, at the statue of her that marked the entrance to his realm. Nature had began to overtake it, ivy and branches and weeds climbing the stone and hugging it tightly, as if it remembered her love of the woods and wished to bring her back; as if it missed her, too.
Thranduil would kneel at the statue's feet, and knowing that there was no threat of anyone hearing him, would speak aloud to her.
There was no grave; this was all he had to visit.
He mourned there, thought there, spoke there. He spoke the words he wished he could say. He spoke of how he could not raise Legolas on his own, that he missed her more than he could bear, and that he never should have let her come with him.
"There's not a day that goes by when I'm not thinking of you. I wish that you would come back," He would say, kneeling in the snow, his light eyes looking to the stone face of the statue. His voice would be the only one in the cold, eerily silence of the woods as the snow fell. "I know—I know you can't. I know that. But I… I wish you would. Ilya ná-vanwa, Eaahrael. Ni milya tye. Ni milya tye. Amin mela lle. I cannot… I cannot do this without you. You said I could, and I've tried. I have tried so hard, meleth."
The statue all but stared back at him, cruelly mocking the king with her mere image. She felt so tangible but she was so far away.
"Eaahrael, I do not know how much longer I can survive without you," he would say, kneeling to her. "I need you… I want you here with me."
The King held such grief and guilt in his cold heart, that he worried that even shutting off his emotions would keep him alive. Perhaps he would die from the guilt of hiding the grief and the guilt.
He was the Elven King; he could not so outrightly speak his emotions and his grief. He dared not to, not even to Legolas. He was the parent, and he deemed it inappropriate to bring his grief down on upon his child and his people. No; he kept it all to himself.
And that would never change.
Legolas had grown to be aloof to his father, and Thranduil knew that it was because he had shut out any emotions, even to Legolas, beginning after Eaahrael's passing.
The years after her passing were dark, depressing days in the Woodland Realm.
Everyone mourned at the death of her. But not one mourned harder than Thranduil had.
After loving her, and losing her, Thranduil knew he could never be the same. Nothing would be normal ever again.
With sad irony, he was like the very snow Eaahrael had loved—beautiful, but cold.
When Legolas was still a little elfling, and he called for him, saying "Ada, Ada!" excitedly once more, asking for attention, or simply to be noticed, Thranduil could not bear to speak or read or sometimes look to his little elf that so terribly craved his attention. The little elfling would tug on his robes and beg to be picked up, to be hugged, to be looked at.
But Thranduil would not have it. Legolas reminded him too much of her. His eyes, staring up at him, were exactly like hers. His heart throbbed in pain when he looked into them.
He would call for the nursemaid to take the little elf, to leave him alone.
"Take him away," Thranduil ordered the nursemaid. "I… I wish to be alone."
The nursemaid nodded, "Yes, My Lord."
"Ada, Ada!" The little elfling would beg again, tugging again at his robes, a child's book in his other hand, wanting desperately for Thranduil to read to him. "Ada, will you read to me? Please? Ada?"
"I said to take him away," Thranduil snapped, his voice shaking, turning away from his son with tears glinting in his eyes. "Did you not hear me?"
"Yes, my Lord. I'm sorry," the nursemaid said quietly. She turned to little Legolas.
"No, no. Come along, Legolas," the nursemaid would say, taking the little one's hand. "Leave your father alone. He is very busy."
"Ada…?" Legolas peeped, trying one last time, staring up at the Elven King with tears gleaming in his eyes, his lip quivering and his eyebrows knit together in confusion.
But Thranduil was undaunted by his little elfling's cries. He did not turn back to his son; he did not reply to his cries.
He ignored the his little elf that tugged on his robes, so desperately crying out to him.
This was not the Ada that Legolas remembered. This was not the Ada that took him on his lap and told him stories of the First Age and placed the crown on his head. This was not the Ada that treated his son with warmth and affection. This was not the Ada that soothed him to sleep, speaking quietly in Elvish until he went into a deep slumber.
He had changed.
He spoke as if the little elfling was not even there.
Little Legolas, bewildered and saddened by his father's aloofness to him, looked sadly up at his Ada and let the nursemaid guide him out of the room, his head hung in disappointment.
The Elven King would sit for hours in his chambers, alone, an untouched glass of wine in one hand and another hand holding his head up, staring into nothingness. He would sit for hours, thinking of what she would do or what she would say if she was there with him beside her.
She would berate him, scold him in Silvan elf that he must be there for Legolas, especially in such a horrific time of grief.
Thranduil's son was a tragic reminder of her, and he simply could not bear it.
But the time had passed and Legolas had grown up to be a serious, brave, striking young prince; though the damage had been done. In his grief, Thranduil had pushed away not only Eaahrael's memory, but his own son.
Thranduil felt like he had let Eaahrael down; that he had disappointed her.
Now, Legolas was just as cold as Thranduil had once been to him.
Regret and guilt plagued the King.
It is not what she would have wanted.
Fear both the heat and the cold of your heart, and try to have patience, if you can—Thranduil could almost hear her say it. But he knew there was no heat in his heart.
Not anymore.
Thranduil had tried to push her so far out of his mind that he worried that he was beginning to forget her.
Thranduil knew of love. He knew what it was to want to die for it. He knew what it was like to be deeply and terribly in love to the point where it made you feel sick. He knew what it was like to have it ripped from you so quickly and so tragically that you wanted to die from grief just so you could be reunited with the one with whom you've lost.
The Elven King's tearful eyes narrowed; he could hear Eaahrael's voice in his head, clearly, like she was whispering in his ear.
I know it's sad, Thranduil, but life is full of sudden goodbyes.
"What do you know of love?" Thranduil barked at Tauriel, who looked back at him, terrified, her eyes gleaming with tears. He pressed the sword deeper to her skin.
"Nothing!"
A'maelamin - my beloved
Quel esta - sleep well
Nana - mommy/mama
Ada - daddy/dada
Ilya ná-vanwa - all is lost
Ni milya the - i miss you
Meleth - love
Vá - don't
Dina - be silent
Tampa tanya - stop that
Pen tithen - little one
Meleth e-gûr nîn - love of my heart
Manke baa lle? - where are you?
Cormlle naa tanya tel'raa - you have a heart of a lion
Mela en' coiamin - love of my life
Áva sorya - don't worry/don't dread
Cormamin niuve tenna' ta elea lle au' - my heart shall weep until we meet again
Amin mela lle - i love you
Echuio - wake up
Av-'osto - don't be afraid
Hîr vuin - my lord
Farn - enough!
Mani naa ta - what is it?
Reviews are greatly appreciated. x