Disclaimer: Recognizable characters, places, and events are the property of
the J.R.R. Tolkien estate.
Author's Notes: As this is my first fanfic, I am a bit inexperienced with display, editing, identifying terms, etc. Please forgive me as I adjust..
Also, since no one is sure of Legolas's actual birth date, I have taken the liberty of moving it forward.
I have not included author's notes within or at the end of the chapter. If you have questions on anything within my fic, please feel free to post them in a review or send an email. Because chapters have been pre-written, this fic will be updated at least weekly (depending on response).
Rated for angst---this will not extend throughout the whole fic.
aranels@hotmail.com
~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~
Chapter 1~*~Brittle Tears
Thilómë had risen early, just as the sun's first beams brightened the edges of the clouds. She slid lightly from the bed, wrapping herself in a silky dressing gown before sitting in front of a large mirror on the wall. Picking up a brush, she passed it through her silvery locks, combing the long strands with her fingers.
"Good morning, love." Thilómë looked up from a handful of hair to the mirror, where she saw her husband's reflection behind her own. He leaned down, placing his hands on her shoulders. Smiling, she turned her face to kiss him quickly, "Good morning."
Her husband ran his hands over her head before turning to get ready for the day. Thilómë returned to brushing her hair, listening as he searched a wardrobe for something to wear. Setting her brush down, she sighed, "Thranduil..?"
"Yes, love?" he was searching through a pile of folded clothing.
"Do you happen to recall a certain night a few weeks ago, the one after the Dorwinion arrived?" Thilómë got up from her chair.
A pleased smile spread over Thranduil's face, "I believe I do."
Thilómë pressed her fingers together, "I'm afraid something has come of it."
"Come of it?" Thranduil raised his eyebrows, the smile fading.
"Yes," Thilómë lifted her eyes to look at him, "As I recall, it has been Dorwinion every time this has happened."
Thranduil quickly set down the tunic he was holding to embrace his wife. He pushed a few long strands of silver hair behind her ear and met her worried gaze, "Everything will be all right. We will be very, very careful this time. Everything I will do that is in my power.."
"..I don't know if there is enough of me left," Thilómë raised a hand to wipe away a river of tears from her eyes.
"Shh," Thranduil pressed his fingers to her lips, "There will be enough. We have one strong son, and the other was not meant to be, though a great part of your spirit was consumed in his bearing. Surely now we will have a daughter, and she will have much time to build upon the little bit that you are able to give to her."
Thilómë nodded, letting her husband wipe the last of her tears away with the edge of his sleeve. Yes, Eru must have purposed a daughter. A daughter would not consume as much of her spirit as another son, and would wait as her portion grew stronger.
~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~
How long ago had it been since she had borne her first son? Nearly two hundred years. Her thoughts drifted back to the day, early in the spring when all new life seemed to surge forth. Mirkwood had still been Greenwood the Great then, and her spirit had been strong and light. The year of waiting had come to an end, and now began the long process of travail.
The painful hours had been more than worth it though. She was tired, and could feel her spirit waning a little, but the sight of her new son filled her with joy. In his eyes she saw the keen sparkle of the elven race, and his grip around her finger was eager. In the years that followed, he had grown tall, fair, and strong. He had become experienced with the bow, and with more years his skill would be unmatched. He had followed his father as an elfling, learning the ways of the wood, the speech of trees and grass and even stones. Yes, he was very strong. Her spirit had done well in him.
But then there had been her other son, not even a hundred years ago. This time, her pregnancy seemed to weigh harder on her, pressing her months before the child was to arrive. When the end of the year had come, the labor stretched on for days. It had been another spring morning, bright, when the delivery finally began. The room had been full of healers by then, and her husband had entered. Things swirled around her head as the pain worsened, and she caught the smell of athelas in the air. Worried, the healers pressed her to give more of her strength to the child. Her light seemed to be draining, draining out of her and into this baby.
"Just a little more," Thranduil had coaxed, and she gave it, gave it like the air seeping from her lungs.
The healers begged for more. She gave it like water from a spring, gushing, spurting, trickling..still they begged, pleaded. With every breath she forced it into the child, her own strength, her very life force.
"She has no more to give!" Thranduil had grown impatient after many hours, when she had been barely breathing. A few more minutes, and they had placed a swaddled bundle in his arms. Lifting a fold of cloth, he had bent down to show her the baby. With her last breaths before darkness, she had seen the perfect little face, its color fading fast. The tiny blue eyes held a faint glimmer for a second, then fell, and Thranduil had folded the cloth over again.
When she woke, she was too weak to cry. The tears came much later, and did not stop for many, many days.
They returned now, as she felt again the life begin to stir within her. Eru and all the Valar could not possibly will her to endure it again. There was so little, so very little, of her spirit left to give, and she wished not to spend it on brittle tears.
Author's Notes: As this is my first fanfic, I am a bit inexperienced with display, editing, identifying terms, etc. Please forgive me as I adjust..
Also, since no one is sure of Legolas's actual birth date, I have taken the liberty of moving it forward.
I have not included author's notes within or at the end of the chapter. If you have questions on anything within my fic, please feel free to post them in a review or send an email. Because chapters have been pre-written, this fic will be updated at least weekly (depending on response).
Rated for angst---this will not extend throughout the whole fic.
aranels@hotmail.com
~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~
Chapter 1~*~Brittle Tears
Thilómë had risen early, just as the sun's first beams brightened the edges of the clouds. She slid lightly from the bed, wrapping herself in a silky dressing gown before sitting in front of a large mirror on the wall. Picking up a brush, she passed it through her silvery locks, combing the long strands with her fingers.
"Good morning, love." Thilómë looked up from a handful of hair to the mirror, where she saw her husband's reflection behind her own. He leaned down, placing his hands on her shoulders. Smiling, she turned her face to kiss him quickly, "Good morning."
Her husband ran his hands over her head before turning to get ready for the day. Thilómë returned to brushing her hair, listening as he searched a wardrobe for something to wear. Setting her brush down, she sighed, "Thranduil..?"
"Yes, love?" he was searching through a pile of folded clothing.
"Do you happen to recall a certain night a few weeks ago, the one after the Dorwinion arrived?" Thilómë got up from her chair.
A pleased smile spread over Thranduil's face, "I believe I do."
Thilómë pressed her fingers together, "I'm afraid something has come of it."
"Come of it?" Thranduil raised his eyebrows, the smile fading.
"Yes," Thilómë lifted her eyes to look at him, "As I recall, it has been Dorwinion every time this has happened."
Thranduil quickly set down the tunic he was holding to embrace his wife. He pushed a few long strands of silver hair behind her ear and met her worried gaze, "Everything will be all right. We will be very, very careful this time. Everything I will do that is in my power.."
"..I don't know if there is enough of me left," Thilómë raised a hand to wipe away a river of tears from her eyes.
"Shh," Thranduil pressed his fingers to her lips, "There will be enough. We have one strong son, and the other was not meant to be, though a great part of your spirit was consumed in his bearing. Surely now we will have a daughter, and she will have much time to build upon the little bit that you are able to give to her."
Thilómë nodded, letting her husband wipe the last of her tears away with the edge of his sleeve. Yes, Eru must have purposed a daughter. A daughter would not consume as much of her spirit as another son, and would wait as her portion grew stronger.
~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~
How long ago had it been since she had borne her first son? Nearly two hundred years. Her thoughts drifted back to the day, early in the spring when all new life seemed to surge forth. Mirkwood had still been Greenwood the Great then, and her spirit had been strong and light. The year of waiting had come to an end, and now began the long process of travail.
The painful hours had been more than worth it though. She was tired, and could feel her spirit waning a little, but the sight of her new son filled her with joy. In his eyes she saw the keen sparkle of the elven race, and his grip around her finger was eager. In the years that followed, he had grown tall, fair, and strong. He had become experienced with the bow, and with more years his skill would be unmatched. He had followed his father as an elfling, learning the ways of the wood, the speech of trees and grass and even stones. Yes, he was very strong. Her spirit had done well in him.
But then there had been her other son, not even a hundred years ago. This time, her pregnancy seemed to weigh harder on her, pressing her months before the child was to arrive. When the end of the year had come, the labor stretched on for days. It had been another spring morning, bright, when the delivery finally began. The room had been full of healers by then, and her husband had entered. Things swirled around her head as the pain worsened, and she caught the smell of athelas in the air. Worried, the healers pressed her to give more of her strength to the child. Her light seemed to be draining, draining out of her and into this baby.
"Just a little more," Thranduil had coaxed, and she gave it, gave it like the air seeping from her lungs.
The healers begged for more. She gave it like water from a spring, gushing, spurting, trickling..still they begged, pleaded. With every breath she forced it into the child, her own strength, her very life force.
"She has no more to give!" Thranduil had grown impatient after many hours, when she had been barely breathing. A few more minutes, and they had placed a swaddled bundle in his arms. Lifting a fold of cloth, he had bent down to show her the baby. With her last breaths before darkness, she had seen the perfect little face, its color fading fast. The tiny blue eyes held a faint glimmer for a second, then fell, and Thranduil had folded the cloth over again.
When she woke, she was too weak to cry. The tears came much later, and did not stop for many, many days.
They returned now, as she felt again the life begin to stir within her. Eru and all the Valar could not possibly will her to endure it again. There was so little, so very little, of her spirit left to give, and she wished not to spend it on brittle tears.
