WARNING: MENTIONS OF TORTURE AND HINTS OF CHILD ABUSE IN THIS CHAPTER. RATED M FOR FUTURE LANGUAGE, GORE, AND SMUT.
DISCLAIMER: I DO NOT, NOR WILL I EVER, OWN LORD OF THE RINGS, THE HOBBIT, OR THE SILMARILLION IN ANY WAY SHAPE OR FORM. I ONLY OWN MY ORIGINAL CHARACTER MARILLA/ ITHILWEN. ALL RIGHTS GO TO THE AMAZING J.R.R. TOLKIEN IN REGARDS TO LOTR AND ITS ACCOMPANYING BOOK SERIES. I AM NOT A PROFESSIONAL WRITER. I AM A DAYDREAMER WHO DAYDREAMS TOO MUCH. I AM A FIRST TIME FANFICTION WRITER. EVER. CRITICISM WELCOME. CONSTRUCTIVE CRITICISM APPRECIATED. LOOKING FOR A BETA(S).
Arda
Moon Maiden
Small dirt and blood covered hands pushed aside the cloth tearing and flesh welting foliage of the forest. Bare feet bled on sharp rocks and tripped on the undergrowth as they flew across the earth. Tears slipped silently from terrified childish eyes and dripped down cracked and bloodied lips that trembled in their effort to contain cries of agony. The child flees their once captures in the darkened woods, they are weary, in both mind and body, and aware that they will soon collapse. Deeper in the woods, sitting idly on his throne, The Elvenking is bombarded by the Spirit of The Forest, the voices on the Wind, the song of The Trees, they tell him of a child, 'Ithilwen' they name her fondly. 'Elvenking, Elvenking, Master of The Realm of Green, save her, save her, save The Would-Be Queen.' He listened.
With the forest making a clear path for them, The Elvenking and his Grand Elk race toward the child with unparalleled speed. They hear the howls of the beasts and the snarls of the evil creatures that ride them and press on faster in their determination to reach this child, this Would-Be Queen, first. Enraged that such vile beings would dare to enter his Woodland Realm and hunt a child of his kind, The Elvenking ordered the woods to trap them as his Grand Elk flew faster through the forest with a determination all of its own. He ordered them to cut them off from the child, to trip their beasts and hide the sky so that they would lose foot and way. It listened.
Distracted by the sounds of the wargs and orc that chased her, Marilla tripped on a rock, tumbled, and fell far too rough for a body as small and fragile as hers down a hill. She lay on the ground, dazed, and exhausted, her body sore, and her mind tired; She doubted she had the strength to get up. She didn't want to get up. Only the thought of her beloved older sister made her stumble back to her feet and continue running. Her poor, beautiful, sister who helped her escape from their evil captures, her dear Celebrain. 'No,' Marilla thought to herself as she wiped the tears from her face, 'I will not give up so easily. I must get help for my sister.'
Endlessly she ran; Every time she fell she would remember her sister and it would give her the strength to continue and pray she found safety soon. Just as she arrived at a clearing, a great beast of an elk burst through. On his back, was an elf, an ellon, wearing beautiful silver robes, and a crown of branches and berries nestled in his platinum blonde hair. This was a King, this was The Elvenking. He stared at her, with his swirling orbs of silver and blue, and held out his hand, beckoning her to him. She didn't hesitate: She threw herself into his arms and clutched onto his robes. He ran his hand through her hair and down her back as she sobbed in relief until she fell unconscious in her exhausted state.
Thranduil swiftly carried the small elfling to the healing ward after sending out guards to dispatch the orcs in the forest. Looking down at the child, his lips flattened into a line as he seethed at the state she was in. He had never seen an elfling, elleth or ellon, so injured; If there was not a bruise, then a burn or gash marred every inch or her frail body, she was covered in blood and dirt with matted hair, torn tatters that were once clothes hung off of her battered and limp form, and she wheezed for breath even in her sleep. Elflings themselves were rare and precious gifts, that were jealously hoarded and fiercely guarded, so to see one in such a poor state was disturbing; If the parents could not be found then Thranduil would not mind keeping her, and if they were found, well, he is The Elvenking after all, he would keep her anyway. 'Besides,' he thought, 'if they could not protect her- if they let their child come to such harm- then someone else should care for her should they not? And who would care for her better than I, Thranduil Oropherion, The Elvenking? She was given to him by The Trees. She was his.'
Silk, soft and fine and soothing, was the first thing she knew. Then came the light, warm and comforting and bright, it called to her, urging her to wake from her slumber; So she did. Eyelashes fluttering open, Marilla stared in confusion at the elf before her. "Hello Ithilwen, I am King Thranduil of Greenwood The Great." His voice was smooth and rich, it held a power that was mirrored in his fae. Intimidating as he was, she did not fear him, though she was confused as to why he was calling her 'Ithilwen', and why she was in The Greenwood, perhaps how as well. She was confused about many things that could be considered important.
Before she could ask any questions, the doors behind The Elvenking were suddenly thrown open, surprising both her and the King. "Ada!" this new elf cried as he strode into the room towards the King, who, apparently, was his father. His voice was light and sweet, and while it lacked the sheer power of his fathers', it held strength; Both held authority but wielded it differently. "The guards told me that you found an elfling wounded in the woods."
"That I did. Come, ion nîn, meet Ithilwen." Thranduil gestured for his son to stand beside him as he proceeded to introduce them, "Ithilwen this is my son Legolas, Crown Prince of Greenwood." Locking eyes with his son, 'Legolas' she reminded herself, she noticed the similarities and differences featured between father and son. The Prince carried himself in a much more humble manner than The King. His clothes were far more simple than his father's elaborate robes, and he wore no circlet to announce his status as Prince. While he held his head high with pride, he was not arrogant. Instead of the same platinum blonde hair as Thranduil, Legolas had warmer locks the color of daffodils in the springtime, fashioned into warrior braids, and his eyes, the same sapphire blue as his fathers', were the kindest she had ever seen.
In her examination of him, Marilla was oblivious to the way Legolas' face softened, of how his eyes filled with awe as he gazed at her. She certainly did not notice the way Thranduil's eyes lit with a wicked mischievousness and glee at his son's reaction toward her; If she had seen the King's smug smirk, she surely would have run away in fear. "Ithilwen," Legolas breathed as he crept closer to her bed, "It suits you." As flattering as it was to be called 'Moon Maiden', that was not her name.
"Thank you," she told them honestly, "but my name is Marilla." She was surprised at the softness of her voice. After seemingly endless hours of choking on the blood of her ravaged and scream torn throat, caused by the Orc induced torture she had suffered from, she was sure that she would sound as hoarse as a dying, dehydrated cat; If she could speak at all that is. She was not expecting the familiar windchime sound of her voice, at all. Although now that she has time to think about- or anything really, it has been far too difficult an effort to concentrate on anything other than pain recently- she has not felt even the smallest ounce of agony since she has become conscious. In fact, the only thing she feels is tired, very, very tired. Too tired, in fact, to even register the shock of not feeling the burning, agonizing pain she had almost become used to from the wounds covering every inch of her body. Almost, that is. The Orcs made sure she would feel each and every bruise as if it was a new wave of pain she had yet to experience, nevermind the actual blood-letting damage they had done to her body; No, they would never be satisfied with just causing her physical pain, mental scarring is far worse, after all, and damage to one's fae, to one's soul, well, there are, it would seem, fates worse than death indeed: Especially so for her race. Immortality is not always a gift. Now, if only she could remember why she was in The Greenwood, and what on Arda she was doing anywhere near any Orcs.
"Pearl suits you just as well," Legolas quickly reassured her, along with freeing her from the dark turn her thoughts had taken. He was very earnest in ensuring that he had not insulted her in any way, what with his eyes intensely focused on her face as he hardly breathes. Only after she gives him what feels like more of a grimace than a smile does he relax. It seems to have relieved him of all stress in general, so it must have looked better than she thought. 'He is a strange elf,' she decides, 'but a kind one none the less.'. She is hardly one to judge the queerness, for lack of better word, of his actions. Even if it does seem to surpass the norms of polite society quiet exceedingly.
"The Trees have named you 'Ithilwen'," Thranduil informs her as he watches us in barely concealed amusement, "So that is what we shall call you.". Well, 'Moon Maiden' is not so terrible a name, after all. She nods her head graciously in agreement, for it would be rude to ignore such an honor from The Trees themselves; Torture or no torture, she is still capable of basic manners. Manners and respect for The Trees are what led her to nod her head of course, not the firmness in Thranduil's voice indicating that refusal was never even a thought she was allowed to have, but because it was The Trees that named her so generously. 'Yes, The Trees,' she weakly assures herself within the confines of her own mind, not once glancing at Thranduil as the thought fleeted across her mind in a near whisper, 'The Trees.'.
"How is it you came to be so wounded in my woods Little One? Why were there so many Orcs chasing you?" As Thranduil questioned her, all of her memories suddenly slammed into her with enough force to steal the breath from her lungs. Memory after memory flooded her mind and overwhelmed her in their assault: She remembered how she had begged and pleaded with her parents, The Lord and Lady of Lothlorien, to leave her home for the first time in her life to see her sister's home and family in Imladris; She remembered how they had been ambushed and surrounded by countless Orcs and Wargs, how frieghtened she was for herself and her sister then; She remembered enduring the cruel torture with her sister, how she was burned and carved into for sport and made to watch as worse happened to her sister, until she escaped through a tunnel that she could only just fit through due to the weight she had lost in her starvation. She Remebered.
Leaping from the bed in her panic, which caused the ellon in the room to then, in turn, panic and attempt to get her to lie down, she grabbed onto Legolas, as he was closest to her, and began to beg. "My sister! Please, please, my sister, you have to save my sister," tears poured down her face as she continued, "They still have her. The Orcs still have my sister! Please," her voice broke, "won't you save my sister? She saved me, she helped me escape." Grief consumed her as she looked both of them in the eyes with her own wet, iridescent, silver pools. "Please," she pleaded one last time, her voice a whispered sob as her heart caught and broke in her throat, her face hopeful but crumpled in distraught.
After, and only after, that Thranduil sent out a troop of soldiers, that Legolas promised to lead personally, to search for her sister, did Marilla return to her bed. Sleep alluded her as she stared unseeingly at the ceiling of the room she was given. Despite her tiredness, her worry for her sister would not allow her the peace of mind to rest. When a new weight settled on her bed and caught her attention. Head turned to her right, she starred at Thranduil with listless eyes in muted surprise at his presence. Silence engulfed them as they stared at one another before he gave her a faint smile and opened his arms to her. Same as the first time they met, Marilla did not hesitate to crawl into his embrace and gripped him tightly. Burying her face in his hair, she breathed in his comforting scent of forest and rain. Slowly, she relaxed as he sang her to sleep while his hand stroked her hair soothingly, and he gently, lovingly, rocked her.
"Ithilwen," a voice cooed in her ear, "you must awaken Little One. Come, up you get." Resolved to ignore the voice, surely it would go away if she just ignored it, she curled into a tighter ball, determined to sleep for the next few millennia. At the tugging of her hair, however, she abandoned sleep to blearily glare with sleep-addled eyes at the accursed being, whom, clearly, does not respect the amount of sleep an elfling needs. It must be half-Orc. In the end, it was the chuckle that woke her fully. All evidence of sleep cleared from her eyes, she peered balefully into the face of an amused Elvenking, whose arms she had slept in apparently. "Not a fan of mornings Little One? Or is it the waking part you dislike so much," he teased her knowingly. She pouted, 'Stupid Elvenking.'
After Eating a small breakfast, during which Thranduil had embarrassingly made her sit on his lap, but mercifully let her feed herself, she was a child of nearly fifty years old and not some five-year-old infant, thank you very much, they wandered into the Royal Garden. Beautiful could not even describe the picturesque landscape, yes, "landscape", because "garden" is too small a word. Even so, she could not fully enjoy it as she still worried for her sister. "You should not worry so much, Little One." Thranduil could read her easier than her own mother, an actual mind-reader, "Your sister will be rescued." He spoke with such confidence that she had no choice but to agree. Verbally that is. She will be convinced of her sister's rescue when her sister is rescued.
Releasing a heavy sigh, Marilla flopped to the ground and contented herself to gazing at the clouds in an effort to distract herself. "Do my parents know that I am here with you in The Greenwood?" She suddenly questioned after several minutes of peaceful silence. "Do they even know that Celebrain and I were taken?" She added quickly and worried her lip in anxiety. She will forever deny the shrill hysterical tone that her voice did not take. She was mature for a fifty-something-year-old chronologically immortal elfling child, she was a Lady, and she did not shriek. Thranduil's ears were failing him in his old age, obviously: The poor fool.
"I have sent messengers to both Lothlorien and Imladris pertaining to you and your sister's situation, yes. I reckon someone will be along to collect you soon enough." While not happy with the prospect of her approaching departure, Thranduil was satisfied for now by the knowledge that she would one day return and eventually stay in The Greenwood. Afterall, The Trees did say she would be Queen; he was not blind to the adoration and devotion in his son's eyes as he gazed at her, Legolas may not quite know exactly what it is he feels, yet, but Thranduil is certain he will one day call Ithilwen daughter.
'Ithilwen is a much better match for his son than That Tauriel Girl anyway. Legolas should listen to me more often, Father knows best after all.' Marilla did not know whatever it was that Thranduil was thinking at that moment, but, besides the brief flash of utter distaste that crossed his beautiful features, he seemed very smug. Very smug indeed.
Chapter One Updated As Of 5:10 PM, 5/9/2018.