Hey guys. I know I haven't published in a while but I've been SUPER busy. So I read this theory about Thranduil being blind on Tumblr by aiffe (for those who wanna read it) and there's also a prompt that the statue at the front of Mirkwood is Thranduil's deceased wife and that after she died Thranduil got all depressed and that whole "sickness" thing fell over the forest. it got me thinking and I spit this puppy out at two in the morning.
Reduced to shadows and blurred, darkened blotches over a black background that tantalized him to figure out what or who they were. That's what he was reduced to. The great Elvenking of Mirkwood, Thranduil, sat atop his throne viewed as a stoic ruler of an unparalleled empire...but it was a throne of lies. For his people saw him, but he did not see them back. Literally. And what good is a blinded king? But this was not common knowledge, and the select few that were aware were few and very far between.
In the beginning he learned to live with it; committing the locations of rooms, hallways, stairs, furniture to memory and counting the steps, looking at someone's general direction so as to appear to acknowledge the speaker. And Thranduil was still able to wield a sword, which dropped the skepticism from surrounding kingdoms, who would not hesitate to send every allied force into Mirkwood if they found out about the Elvenking's state. He never left the front gates anyways so there was no need to memorize what was beyond the gates. Beyond the gates and into the forest.
That's where the pain began. The remorse. The pity. The torture. The hell.
Thranduil had loved nothing more than strolling through the forest at night, guided by the moonlight, to the entrance. There was a statue out front, by the archway, of a gorgeously fair Elven woman with eyes like gems of pure starlight. She was Thranduil's wife, lover, friend, and his world. Was. He had had the monument created from the finest stone in Mirkwood by only the finest artist for all to admire. Her beauty and grace were matched by her caring nature and her levelheadedness.
And then she died. There, alive and perfect as ever one day...and then passed and gone the next. Yes, he had Legolas, but the consuming void that held his heart never faltered. Then the forest followed suit: the spiders nested, an evil set in, and vines took over the last memorial he had of her, just as they had done to his heart.
A sickness fell over Mirkwood...and Thranduil. It was a sickness that made him crave to be alone, and when he was, it curled his soul up in its inky fingers and held in a cocoon of mourning for what was lost. A sickness that shamed him through his waking hours and haunted him through his sleeping ones.
Thranduil no longer walked through the Mirkwood forest. It reminded him to much of a time so pleasant and so far off that he could not even recall it completely. What agonized him more was that he no longer remembered the sound of his wife's voice. Yes, there were memories of her speaking, but there was no permanent voice to them. Each time Thranduil pulled the memories forward the voice would change; sometimes it was only a nuance from the last attempt...while other tries the sound would be utterly incomparable too him. Not only could he not looks at his love (her statue), but now he could not hear her either.
And he wondered why he had been cursed like this. What he had done to deserve this.
It had been quick. The dragon-a Pyre Wyvern from beyond the Rhûn-was in front of him. Sword raised, scales glowing, loud roars, then all was swapped out for searing blackness with a white-hot, swallowing heat. Thranduil knew of the wrath and ruin that trailed dragon's fire...but now he knew it. The healers had done everything in their power possible. The scars were hidden by a false glamour so as to appear nonexistent, but the scars would always be there. Even if no one else could see them, even if no one else could feel them...those scars would always be there. Haunting him, marring him, forsaking him.
Thranduil often recalled one time when Legolas was a small boy (about 5 in human years, but in Elf years well around 100 or so); he had walked into his father's chambers unannounced. Legolas saw his father by the window and ran up and hugged his legs affectionately. Surprised, Thranduil turned and looked down at his son, with his scarring fully exposed. Being only a small child, Legolas was terrified and ran out screaming. It was then that Thranduil had to tell his son what had happened. So much pain and suffering on one story was hard for one so small to take upon his shoulders, but Legolas took it upon himself to be his father's eyes when he could. Thus, through the years when he was with the king, he would automatically announce the scenery of who was stepping forward and from what direction—whispering it quietly and discreetly in the king's ear.
He was happy, at least, that his love didn't have to see him like this. She died long before the dragon came. In all Thranduil's reflecting, he realized that he had only done his duty. He protected his people, his kingdom…his family. And he was still breathing. But none of that mattered now. The past is in the past…but the past never lets go. The past can find its way back, and it tends to become the only thing one knows when staring into a black void for the rest of time…