No one spoke of his mother.

Within those deep, cavernous halls carved from stone, the mere mention of the late queen would earn a few months stay in the dungeon. They said that despite his stolid façade, the King was still mourning the loss of his beloved, and had been grieving for the past two thousand years. Yet it seemed like an irony of the highest degree that there were no portraits, no memories, as if she had taken everything that existed in this world to an unmarked grave.

But that did not stop Legolas from wondering.

They were ghostly whispers now, tendrils of light and dark that flickered through his mind before dissipating into recesses of twilight. Though he could not conjure the exact image, he could still remember the feeling of her arms, warm through the heavy silk, cradling him on cold winter nights. Though he could not recall the precise tone, he could still remember the cadence of her words, revealing snippets of Old Doriath. And though he could not bring to mind her face, he could still remember the peculiar way the light danced from her features, accentuating her high cheekbones and radiant smile.

These fragments were all he had now, shards from a long-gone past that became dimmer with each passing autumn, like pebbles being smoothed by the currents of the river. Time devoured all, and his memories were no exception.

Over the course of two thousand years, Legolas had spun many fanciful musings about his missing mother. Each flitting thought contributed to an image that gradually made itself apparent and firmly rooted in his mind. Reality gave way to fantasy, and the already murky distinction blurred until he was no longer able to discern between the two. But perhaps it was best that way, for it was better to grow up with a fleeting figure that dwelled in sunlit glades than to face the cold, harsh, void of reality.

He imagined her with flaxen hair of gleaming gold like the wheat during autumn harvests, with eyes not unlike his own, a shade so blue that reflected the summer sky (not that steely blue of his father that was quick to slash and dissect and eviscerate), with a gentle smile that mollified irate hearts, and with a gaze so full of love for her kingdom, her people, her husband, and her son.

Like Eru Illuvatar fashioning the Firstborn, Legolas instilled every virtue he could think of into this fantastical creature, and it was this notion he carried with him in all that he did.

When he finally met his mother, these quixotic perceptions were effectively destroyed.

…

With a father like his, Legolas quickly learned that some things were better left unsaid. Thranduil was not a poor father by any means, and on the rare chance the Elvenking had a reprieve from his duties, he would take his son hunting in the forests of Greenwood the Great. It was he who oversaw his son's education, teaching him the ways of the warrior and the prince. And the Elvenking had succeeded, and Legolas was the proof of his toils.

Yet deep in his heart lingered memories of sorrow and bereavement, of the loss of his father at Dagorlad, of his people slaughtered by the forces of evil, and of the loss of his—and Greenwood's—queen. Only Galion, his faithful friend who had attended him all these years, could even begin to fathom the depth of his pains, but in the end, Thranduil was alone on a road that led to nowhere.

He tried to show his son his affection, but how was that possible when he could barely look at him because his son reminded him so much of her? Though his son had inherited his coloring of blonde and blue, he had his mother's spirit, and when the light slanted at a certain angle, every little gesture, be it a turning of the head or a narrowing of the eyes, contained so many memories (Doriath, Lindon, Amon Lanc, the places were all beginning to blur) that for a fleeting moment, Thranduil imagined that his queen was standing in front of him.

And when the moment of folly had lapsed, his vision would clear, and he would be left with seeing his son, the only physical memento she has left him.

…

Legolas, when he had not yet reached the ripe mark of fifty years, had asked, in a fit of youthful foolishness, his father the whereabouts of his mother. He had returned from a day's work in the archery ranges, and he had seen the mothers of his companions run up to them and fuss over their appearance and their array of cuts and bruises. A bitter feeling welled up in his throat when he realized that there was no one there to tend to him, and he had walked back to the palace in silence and jealousy. Call it the burden of the aristocracy; Legolas, for possibly the first time in his short life, had lacked something which everyone else had. This sense of bereavement did not sit well with the young marksman.

Rapping the door to his father's study with three brisk strokes, he entered after hearing his father's beckoning. The room was dimly lit by a burnished brazier in the corner, and a faint aroma of dried ink lingered in the air. Unlike the throne room, the study had a low ceiling that provided for a cozy workspace. Stacks of parchment sat on one side of the desk, and a bookcase filled with tomes of lore rose along the back wall. Though the Sindars were reputed to be less wise than their Noldorin cousins, they were by no means uncouth ruffians.

Legolas stood still for a time, watching his father compose a document. The King placed his quill down, reached for the stamp, and pressed it to the parchment, and set it aside. He then reached for the next sheaf on the pile. He skimmed it quickly, and began to write.

"Yes, Legolas?" came the smooth baritone. Legolas knew that his father was not hard on the eyes, even by elven standards, if the titters of the court ladies were any indication. He himself was beginning to garner the same reaction from the younger ladies, and though he could not say he didn't enjoy their attentions, he had to admit that their reactions were irritating sometimes.

Before his mind could filter his thoughts and debate the prudence of his actions, he blurted, "Father, who is my mother?"

The quiet scribbling of the quill nib stopped abruptly, and dark ink pooled on the parchment. The Elvenking did not move for a long time, and all was still except for the flickering of the flames that cast long shadows across the room and his face.

Then, slowly, the King raised his head, his features hollow and gaunt. If even possible for elven beauty, his features had a sickly sallowness that betrayed his eternal youth and revealed the King's age. The regal façade his father presented to the council and his advisors was fractured, and there was a tender vulnerability that laid beneath the bolts of silk and titles— the anguish of not a king, but of a heartbroken elf.

His father's eyes, the silvery blue that was usually so keen, were clouded with the sorrow for his departed wife. The gaze that usually grounded Legolas was now gone, and in its stead was a glassy surface brimming with fine cracks that threatened to consume his father inside out. There was a sense of vertigo humming in the air, a jarring disconnect from reality.

If elves were blessed with strong bodies, then they have received emotions of surprising fragility. They felt everything so deeply, on a level so profound that it was impossible for mortals to comprehend. And this is the price they have paid for their immortality and beauty. Men, so afraid of death, the Gift of Illuvator, often envied the elves for their immortality, but for Thranduil, living until the end of the world was not a boon, but rather, a bane.

The Elvenking did not speak, offering no explanation, and his eyes were transfixed on a distant point—perhaps he was imagining the white sands of the West and the cries of the gulls. Legolas, feeling out of place and guilty for bringing his father such palpable pain, slipped quietly from the room and closed the door behind him. His father made no acknowledgement of his departure.

From that point on, Legolas knew not to bring up matters of the queen with his father.

And silence began its reign.

…

Even if no one spoke of it, the matter still had a way of escaping, seeping through the crevices of his father's halls and amplifying the whispers through those resounding chambers until the torrent of noises threatened to overwhelm him.

Once, in a briefing with his father and the captain of the guard regarding the looming evil that overhung Mirkwood, the captain mentioned a possible attack from Gundabad, a strategic stronghold of the once infamous kingdom of Angmar.

For the briefest of seconds, pain—a deep, fathomless torture—laced through his father's eyes before quickly evaporating like dew in the morning sun. Icy stolidity once again took its place, filling in the cracks of the King's façade.

"I apologize, my lord," the captain lowered his eyes and placed his right hand on his breast. "It was callous of me to mention that fell place."

"You are dismissed," came the flat voice of the Elvenking. But underneath the indifference, an uneasy tension broiled, threatening to tear apart the King's veneer piece by heartbreaking piece. His father, Legolas realized, was more fragile than most perceived.

The King was rational in affairs concerning the state, and the strain in his voice betrayed the fact that Gundabad was more than a military threat. Perhaps it held a point of personal tragedy to his father…

The candle was burning to the end of its wick as Legolas flipped through another volume of the annals. So far, in the last fifteen hundred years, there was little activity of the orc citadel in relation to Mirkwood. There were only cursory mentions of the place, and they were of little significance.

Then, his eyes stilled at a passage dating to a few years after his birth, titled "The Siege of Gundabad and the Death of the Woodland Queen"

When the King returned from a successful trade negotiation with Dale and Erebor, he found a patrol of guards, all massacred in the bloodiest manner possible, save for one. The ellon was gasping for breath, the light already fading from his eyes, and with his last words he told the King that the Orcs claimed that they had taken the Queen as prisoner to Gundabad. The King, finding that the queen indeed was missing, set out with a host of his best warriors and marched on Gundabad. When they had arrived, he demanded that the orcs release the Woodland Queen, lest they brought war upon themselves. The orcs sneered and spat in their faces. They gleefully told the King of the various types of torture they inflicted upon his wife, just to see his spirit crumble. But he stood firm, a brilliant fire flared in his eyes, not to be quenched by the vile mocking of those despicable creatures.

The Siege of Gundabad lasted for many months. The King's troops were weary and depleted, but continued to persevere. Yet, the King's valor and courage were in vain because the orcs had finally broke him. On a gray morning, they stood her on the parapet, and she was bloodied and mutilated beyond recognition. The orc leader called out to our King that "he could have her." He doused the Queen in pitch tar, set her ablaze, and flung her from the rampart. She screamed in agony during the entire descent before the flames consumed her and reduced her to dust. No body ever hit the ground, and all that remained were ashes that slowly drifted through the air. The King, with a heavy heart, returned to his realm, his back turned to the jeering of the Gundabad orc. He suffered a bitter defeat that day, the day when the Last Elvenqueen and his only love departed from the shores of Arda.

Legolas set down the tome, his fingers trembling. So this was why the briefest mention of the queen pained his father. Such an event must have been deeply distressing, and the fact that his father did not fade was a testament to his strength. But the pain still lingered, clawing its way deeper and deeper into his heart until one day he could no longer bear it and left for the Western Shores.

The prince touched his cheeks and found them wet. How long was it since he had last shed tears? A hundred years? Five hundred? A thousand? The full force of never meeting his mother hit him, blunt and disorienting, and he found himself unable to stem the flow of the salty liquid from his eyes.

How agonizing it must have been to spend her last days in delirium and pain—cruel, sadistic pain—and to die in such a manner was incomprehensible to the elven mind.

But at least, as he turned his eyes to the stars that he knew were there, he could at least take comfort in that she found peace and solace under a different sky.

Unknown to him, across the banks of the Anduin, an elleth sat in the middle of her garden and gazed at the glittering fabric above, the silvery sheen of starlight dancing in the depths of those ancient eyes.

Welcome to Roots, an explication on the fate of Legolas's mother, the Queen of the Woodland Realm. The plotline of this story fits into the larger development I have for the Elvenqueen (which I might write someday), but the groundwork laid out in this story should be sufficient to make this a standalone piece. Expect minor deviations from cannon, though I have done the best I could to adhere to Tolkien's works.

Reviews and follows are appreciated!