I DO NOT OWN LEGOLAS. HE IS A CREATION OF THE MASTER TOLKIEN AS ARE MANY OF THE PLACES AND NAMES MENTIONED HERE ON OUT.

*This is an updated, reworked and edited version of this story that I originally posted in 2005. I am leaving the old story up, though, for posterity's sake!

A/N: The setting of this story is AU as I will introduce several OCs and cultures not found in The Lord of the Rings. This story will *attempt* to engage canon as much as possible where appropriate, and I will definitely appreciate feedback on accuracy or where canon can be implemented. I am by no means a Tolkien scholar, but I try my best to research my stories. My hope is that the work will be entertaining enough! Enjoy!

Setting pre FOTR

Chapter 1: WHAT'S IN A NAME

There before him were the enchanted gates—the Great Gates that led into his father's keep. He couldn't help but smile as he thought of the reception he would soon be getting. Legolas was returning from a patrol in Mirkwood. Indeed the Shadow and all its fell creatures were growing at an alarming rate. He had been out for a season hunting spider and orc, and was looking forward to coming home.

The Forest River flowed swiftly before him. He paused before stepping on the bridge, knelt on the ground placing his hand on the moss-covered path, lightly treaded upon by elven steps, greeting his home as all wood elves do when too long from their home. Under his hand he felt the settling of the earth, the roots of the mighty trees shifting, the pulsing of the river waters, and the gentle whispers of the moss, the grass, and flowers that skipped upon the surface. He could feel the warmth of life—the warmth of baby birds nestled beneath their mother's breast, the rumbling of hooves on the ground, and the delicate patterns of insects and fish.

Breathing in the smells of his home, Legolas whispered, eyes closed, "Eru Bera sen bar/ Eru protect this dwelling place."

In reply, ennor radiated energy, felt like heat rising through Legolas' arm, enveloping him in a warm embrace. The strange magic of the wood elves was strong here and Shadow had not overcome Arda's radiance. As he stood the warmth of ennor soothed away his worries. The smile on his lips was less tense, worn more easily.

Across the bridge rose the tree-covered hill in which the Great Halls of the Elven King had been carved out. Indeed, on days such as these—where the Shadow was distant—if one was traveling along the Enchanted Road, the trees would be more alive as the Silvan people chose to keep to their tree dwellings.

As Legolas crossed the bridge he was surprised that no one had come to greet him. That is that no little one had rushed to him. Where is Lotórie,Legolas pondered. He had expected his little niece to come running to meet him. She had an uncanny sense, even for an elf, of knowing when Legolas would come home from his ventures abroad. He had expected that as soon as he stepped foot on the bridge, a little bundle of energy would pounce upon him, hoping to be twirled around by a most happy Legolas. Lotórie was the daughter of Legolas' brother Laurenor, and was very much the little light of his life- of his family. Legolas found himself waiting for the little elf to pounce on him. Where are you my little flower? He sighed loudly with disappointment when she did not materialize.

Caught off guard by his response, he chuckled at himself, "that was unexpected." He walked towards the gates hoping that inside he would find what he was looking for, and as he approached them he couldn't help but think of the legacy his mother had left his father and his siblings.

So much in a name, thought Legolas. His mother had put so much thought into each of their names. Laurenor, Lotórie's father, was named in remembrance of Lothlórien, the land of gold. Their mother always remembered her home, where she was raised, as a land of gold, blessed with the majesty of the mallorn trees. Legolas couldn't help but think of his mother, so close to his heart, but yet so far from him.

Nyére, Legolas silently called out to his mother, you were so aptly named sorrow. Legolas could never fully heal the wound that his mother's death left. Nae, not even her parents could get passed their pain. Their grief had run so deep that they sailed to the undying lands, seeking solace from the torment their daughter's death left them. I had so little time with you. These thoughts often burdened Legolas, though he was thankful for the time he had with her. While memories of his naneth brought him sorrow, they also brought him much joy.

Remembering those happier moments brought a smile to Legolas' face.

Oh Legolas, your name is perfectly acceptable and beautiful! Remember you are my little green leaf, named for the gloriousness of this Greenwood that shall endure! What little one, you still hate it… Oh I see your brother has a better name… Oh gold you say, you wanted gold in your name too? Oh my little one, you have heard to many tales from the Men of Lake-town. The gold they speak of is not the gold of my home. You see lass, the gold of my childhood is like the green of your trees! Gold is the color of the leaves of the mallorn of my home, like green is the color of the oaks and beech of our Greenwood.

Indeed Thranduil and Nyére named their last child almost as a challenge to the shadow that enveloped their lands that gave rise to the name Mirkwood. Although Legolas had been born before the time of the watchful peace, and lived through those peaceful times, he carried a pale sadness with him. Yet he was the light of Mirkwood. In fact, and unbeknownst to him, Legolas' youthful light was a beacon of hope for the Eldar who tarried on Middle Earth.

As Legolas approached the palace, Thranduil watched from his perch in the trees above the Great Gates. He could see the trace of sadness that graced his youngest son's face. Ahh Nyére, I wish you were here to see how our son has grown. Our little green lassë has sprouted from the little nymph he once was. Thranduil couldn't help but laugh at the memories of his youngest son. Legolas was always getting in and out of trouble as a child, and during those times when his son was a handful, Thranduil would remind himself of the knowledge his wife had shared with him concerning Legolas.

Nyére was gifted with an incredible gift of foresight, a gift—it was said—from her parents. Her father, a dark-haired Silvan from Lothlórien, and her mother, a Noldo, one of the many who settled in Lothlórien with the Lady Galadriel, were both intensely thoughtful yet light-hearted Elves. Thranduil's marriage to Nyére healed the alliance between Lórien and Greenwood, which had been weakened by the past's troubles during the time of his father Oropher. But this was not the reason he fell for his wood spirit.

Thranduil first laid eyes, no heard his wife—the sound of her laughter, like the silver of Elbereth's stars glistening in the night skies—during a visit to his home of old in Lindon. When he approached her, Nyére's eyes sparkled and she let out a gasp, announcing, herven nín, my husband! And as she proclaimed it Thranduil knew it was true!

Yet Nyére's gift remained a mystery to Thranduil and whenever his curiosity got the better of him and he would ask about it Nyére would simply laugh and lay a kiss on her husband's cheek.

On the day of Legolas' conception Nyére had whispered to Thranduil, "Our son will be strong, but I sense his path on these lands will be hard. Yet I feel hope. Somehow this life that I hold is tied to the making right of this world. Our little one carries the future of the Eldar."

"Nyére, of course the gift of a child is wondrous, but do you feel such a presence from this little one? I would dare admonish you for speaking as any expecting mother would, but I trust your words," Thranduil replied, amazement and love filling his being.

Nyére threw her head back and laughed, "Ai, yes our son is the most special being created this day on Arda."

Suddenly her countenance was serious, "and to the music of the Ainar is added the unique voice of our little Greenleaf. Legolas, you are thus so named, strong and vibrant as the trees of Greenwood, and eternally bright as the light that shone from the trees of silver and gold." Nyére felt her husband's hand softly touch her belly.

Thranduil spoke to his son "Yes, Legolas, you shall be as a light evermore and your voice will be both luminous and lovely. Meleth nîn, my love, you have blessed me with the holiest privilege of our kind, to be father to two, now three wonderful children. The Valar have truly blessed us!

Thranduil was brought back into the present by the shouts he heard from below, "Hir nîn! Are you so lost in thought you cannot welcome home your own son?"

"No, of course not Legolas, it is good to have you home! I have a feeling what you have been looking for will soon make its presence known." Thranduil laughed as he heard giggles come from behind him. He turned his head towards where the giggles emanated, and with the sound of mirth in his voice, said, "Go Lotórie, your uncle is looking for you. I think he is rather upset you didn't go meet him at the gate."

"Ada!" Lotórie, squealed, "I wanted to give uncle Legolas a bigger surprise! I want him to think I forgot about meeting him at the gate. He will be so mad."

Lotórie was very sure that her plan would make her uncle happy, and she had after all a bigger surprise- the arrow she fletched herself. It had been a task, hand winding the thread to bind the feathers onto the shaft of her arrow. The arrow itself was not the best quality, but Lotórie insisted that she had to learn how to do it so she could impress her uncle Legolas. After all everyone knew that of all the warriors, not only was he the best archer, but when it came to mending and making their own arrows, Uncle was the very best. Mirkwood had elves who dedicated themselves to making bows and arrows and their craftsmanship could not be surpassed by the warriors, but all warriors did indeed need to learn the art for themselves. When out on patrols or in battle, warriors had to mend and make their own arrows, being so far from the master craftsmen.

Thranduil looked at the crooked arrow held tightly in Lotórie's little hands, and spoke lovingly, "Well I think you will surely surprise your uncle, but you must run to him quick! I thought I saw him a little sad when you didn't meet him at the gate."

The look of concern that flashed on Lotórie's face was endearing. Thranduil patted her bobbing head as she rushed down the tree to greet her uncle, arrow in tow. Thranduil thought to himself, So much in a name … Ahhh Lotórie, my blossoming flower, so aptly named for every moment you live, revealing new beauty, like a Niphredil blooming on the mallorns of Lórinand.

ELVISH

Naneth- mother

lassë- leaf (quenyan), lass (sylvan)

Ãrda- Middle Earth

Meleth nîn- My love

Hir nîn- My Lord

Lórinand-LothLórien

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