Disclaimer: I don't own Legolas or any of the LOTR or Hobbit characters. All rights go to the brilliant minds of J.R.R Tolkien and Peter Jackson, and I seek no money or profit from this fan-work.
Author's note: I am super excited about writing a Legolas/Thranduil centric story centered around one of my favorite genres: Hurt/Comfort. The idea for this story came to me while recovering from an injury so there will be a lot of angst mixed with hurt/comfort. I have virtually everything written, so I will post the chapters in sequence after a week or two until the conclusion of this story.
Please note that the information contained within this chapter is crucial to understanding an angle of Thranduil's character I wanted to explore, as well as give you an idea of his relationship with Legolas. Things will get much more exciting very soon. Please enjoy!
Recent edit: I have been told that the word tepid is typically used to describe liquids, but there is a thematic reason for its usage here, one that you will understand as the story progresses.
Warning: possible nightmares for younger viewers and/or loss of faith in certain elves may occur. Read at your own risk.
Cover art by yours truly!
Sindarin Translations
sîdha- peace
penneth- young one
Ion-nin- my son
saes- please
peredhel- half-elven(Quenya form)
Gi melin- I love you
Chapter One: Undying Light
~LOTRLOTRLOTR~
Thranduil, King of Mirkwood, paced across the hard tepid floors of his chambers.
The burgundy train of his robes sweeping behind him, was swallowed by the silvery fabric of the outer robe; much like the darkness of night is devoured by the purifying light of day. A piece of parchment was clutched in his right hand—a note written in the black speech—maliciously detailing news of another war on the horizon. A war, that remained the sole decision of the Elvenking to counter, if the need arose.
But a heavier weight rested on the Elvenking's shoulders. One that exceeded beyond the line of duty.
Orcs from Dol Guldur were amassing a large army in preparation to march north; their destination unknown and motives unclear. All that was known was that an attack was coming. It had taken a few of his best elven spies and a contingent of soldiers to subdue the threat of the orcs the last time an attack fell upon the Mirkwood realm, but a good outcome of war often depended on a good knowledge base of the enemy. This time, however, Thranduil possessed no such knowledge. He did not know the full force of the army that would march, nor in what strength they would do so. All Thranduil knew was that the future of the realm rested upon his decision to either blindly prepare for a war that may never come to their soil or wait for his spies to gather more information before action was taken.
Thranduil held back a shudder of disgust and deep sorrow as his fingers grazed the dried elven blood that drenched part of the parchment, his stomach churning at the remembrance of the elven messenger's—his kin's—mangled body slumped lifelessly over a panting steed—a Morgul shaft bearing a note speared through its center protruding from the elf's chest.
At the time, Thranduil had not been able to suppress a wince as his fingers brushed against the elf's lifeless and raw flesh; a whisper of the agony endured still radiating from within the shattered pieces of the elf's soul which had been brutally torn apart by a pain beyond imagining.
So profound was his grief, that for the first time since his wife's passing, the Elvenking had wept.
Elves were immortal beings meant to live on forever, each one counted among the very stars as an undying light that shines upon the world, keeping the forces of darkness at bay. Words did not exist to express the tragedy whenever these lights were extinguished. But times were ever changing and Middle Earth was growing darker and more dangerous as the centuries passed. As such, it was not always possible for all to live forever.
Thranduil had grown to understand this harsh truth since the mantle of King was thrust upon his youthful shoulders, his father's words coming to the forefront of his mind each time he looked upon death.
You cannot keep everyone safe. Wars must be fought and blood must be spilled to ensure the safety of this realm.
Oropher's words came to be true over the ages and Thranduil learned to accept them, as he must. However, there was still a part of him that fought for life and the preservation of his race at all costs.
From an early age, Thranduil exhibited a strong altruistic nature. He cared, probably much more than he should sometimes. Though death was something that always bereaved and troubled the young prince, unnecessary death being a wasteful sin that served no purpose in his eyes. Because of this, whenever his kin met their end this way, Thranduil always felt a pang of deep loss stab at his heart, no matter how he tried to console himself on the decision. Even more bitter was his grief for those who had to endure much suffering before they found peace. If Oropher had felt the loss as heavily Thranduil still did not know, for he had not been the kind of man to share his feelings openly with others. Not even with his son.
"The son becomes the father," Thranduil muttered quietly to himself, eyes darting about the empty room where he currently resided. He was grieving in solitude, just as he suspected his own father of doing. But even so, Thranduil could hardly imagine Oropher grieving to the extent that he had.. or even close to it.
After the mangled body of the elven soldier was taken away for burial, the Elvenking returned to his chambers with an aching heart, eyes burning with tears stubbornly kept at bay. But the restraint did not last long. The weight of emotion, soon became too much to bear and the damn that had imprisoned his deepest emotions cracked in two. For several hours secluded in his chambers, Thranduil grieved and wept for his soldier, his charge, his kin who had been so brutally ripped away from the life he could have had.
Was it wrong to do so? Would it make him seem weak or vulnerable in the eyes of his people if they heard their king expressing such emotion? Oropher certainly seemed to think so, but Thranduil did not. As far as he was concerned, expressing grief was not something to be ashamed of no matter one's station and it did not make one weak or vulnerable, but instead, it showed a caring heart; something that should never be hidden away but brought into the light.
Thranduil remembered a time when he showed this part of himself, openly and without fear of ridicule. His mother had told him that his caring heart was one of his finest qualities and would serve him well, especially if he ever became king. However, his father cautioned of the dangers of a king that ruled with the heart instead of the head, wanting strength alone to be the primary attribute.
For a while, Thranduil tried to conform to his father's vision of a perfect king, he really tried. But it never felt natural.
As swiftly as a candle was blown out, Oropher watched the fire in his son's eyes disappear, leaving behind a gaze colder than stone. From then on the prince's actions became devoid of passion, even when they weren't among the public.
Faced with no other recourse, Oropher allowed his son the freedom to choose what sort of king he wanted to be.
Many years passed and war, once again, lashed their lands and decimated all that was good, taking with it the Mirkwood king in its wake. In congruence with the law, the mantle descended with all its weight onto the shoulders of the next of kin, King Thranduil Oropherion. The elf in question was not yet a man and lacked almost all the necessary political knowhow and training. However, there was one important thing that the new king of the woodland realm had mastered to a fine degree. Manipulation.
Early on, Thranduil taught himself to suppress his innermost emotions beneath an exterior of power and shrewd judgment. Beyond these, Thranduil thought it useful to exude a small degree of ruthlessness to make it appear as though he were beyond reproach. Often people with these misshapen ideals were given a wide berth by others and watched, which was exactly what Thranduil wanted; for people to be so busy watching him that they did not notice the king's watchful eye tracking their movements and sizing up their gall.
In his deceased father's halls this skill often came in handy, and when the first day neared its end, Thranduil felt the first real swell of pride for proving to himself—if not to his father—that he could rule his way without letting himself be controlled.
The indignant glower Oropher gave him from his watchful but silent place above the mantle no longer mattered.
The Elvenking sighed, the sound much louder in the quiet of the room. Unbidden, a thought formed. I have allowed my heart to control me and that exterior to briefly fall away this day. What would father think of me now? The Sinda shook his head, unwilling to go down the road that would only lead to self-deprivation. He was the sole ruler now. He alone was responsible for the welfare of Mirkwood. He ruled with a firm but gentle hand. He laughed. He made merry in the triumphs of his kingdom and grieved the hardships of his people. And he was proud of it.
He was the Elvenking.
Thranduil allowed a smug smirk to pass his lips briefly, before sensing what he held.
The parchment felt worse than contemptible now, his very being utterly repulsed to touch up the darkness of the foul tongue another second. Fists clenching tightly around it, his eyes closed briefly before a fire burned in them, a fire of redemption and preservation that nearly equaled that of the brilliant flames of the hearth as he cast it into the inferno, numbly observing as the mix of acidic words and elven blood were consumed, the fire hissing and crackling as it toiled. The acrid stench produced permeated the chambers like an inescapable fog of death and made the king's lungs and throat burn despite the balcony doors being wide open, but there he stayed, forcing himself to remain until every trace of the evil burned away. Only when the parchment turned to ashes did its dark hold over the room end.
Wasting no time, Thranduil stepped out onto the balcony. He breathed in deeply, allowing the cool night air purge his lungs as he took in the privileged view.
The large expanse of his kingdom stretched several leagues past the line of trees, the night coloring them a deep shade of green and the moonlight dancing across the sullen leaves to give the illusion of health. Though, all that really stood there were mere dead husks protecting and shielding their borders, their spirits in a deep sleep. The still-green tress that lined the perimeter of the palace were untouched, untainted by the vile darkness consuming its own, though not unaware of it.
Mirkwood was strong, and yet, in need of so much guidance. Much like an adolescent, Thranduil mused, before directing his gaze elsewhere. His eyes soon landed on the cobblestone pathways that weaved through the villages. The normal din of daily activities no longer filled the streets, nor did candle light flicker from the windows of the houses.
Mirkwood was at rest.
And for a split second, perhaps less, Thranduil felt at peace. At least, before the crushing weight of reality fell back onto his shoulders, that is. War was coming. No matter how tranquil things may seem now it would not be for much longer. Thranduil was certain of this.
Noticing the constricting of his chest had eased to a bearable level, the Elvenking spun around to head back inside. A strong breeze blew past, effortlessly lifting a few strands of his silvery hair off his shoulders. Though slightly surprised by the sudden show of nature, Thranduil did not slow his pace until he reached his chambers.
But something was different. The room was.. lighter somehow.
Thranduil knew he had felt the cloying darkness there only a few moments ago. It had choked his spirit and made it hard to breathe in a way that smoke never could. So why then was his chambers suddenly free of it?
It was then that the incident on the balcony came back to him. The strong gust of wind had almost succeeded in causing the Elvenking's solid stance to waver as it blew past, so perhaps it was also capable of taking with it the last foul traces of smoke and darkness from his chambers. Yes, that was entirely possible.
Sending a quick prayer of thanks to whatever force was responsible for the small miracle, Thranduil marched over to his private study and settled down in the leather chair. The life taken that day had been a provocation, something to get his attention and at the same time, prove that Mirkwood was not untouchable and nothing could prevent the orcs from invading their lands and slaughtering their kin. Well, as long as the King of the Woodland realm drew breath, that was not going to happen.
As if motivated by an unconscious will to solidify and fulfill this promise, Thranduil worked the rest of the evening and late into the night, turning over every stone of information within his reach until none were left unturned. When finished, the elf's body felt no strain from the position it had held for several hours, but his mind was another story.
The Elvenking sighed heavily, slumping back into the chair, hands going to his head to massage his temples.
It was one thing to hear petitions of his people for many hours, but it was another to come to his study and try to solve problems that had no apparent solution no matter how many times he stripped them bare and dissected their pieces.
Resigning himself to the harsh truth that no further progress would be made that night, Thranduil tidied his desk and reluctantly rose from it, heading to his bed.
He eyed the pillow and soft mattress, eager to leave the stresses of the day behind, while deft fingers worked the clasp of his belt and removed his shoes, neatly placing them in the closet next to the others. For that was how it felt; as if his hands were working independently of the body.
Not yet satisfied with his state of undress, Thranduil worked the fastenings of his sword. His hands stilled.
This was the third consecutive week spent shut away in the office or in meetings. Granted, these days were not completely devoid of his son's company, but just bidding his child good night did not suffice to spending quality time with Legolas anymore. Thranduil missed his melodious laughter and energetic presence, even answering the numerous questions Legolas asked. Aye, he missed his son terribly. Surely the feelings were mutual?
Thranduil made a move for the door, glimpsing the fully darkened sky through the open balcony as he did so. It was now the middle of the night. By now, Legolas was surely walking in elven dreams and to wake him now wouldn't be the best idea.
Thranduil stood there a moment longer, regretfully staring up at the twinkling stars with a hard gaze that was seemingly trying to melt away the night into day, before glancing at the bed once more.
"No. I cannot sleep now," he chided himself firmly. "I cannot sleep without knowing my son is alright." But does that make it right to disturb his sleep just for my own peace of mind? Thranduil's paternal instincts continued to tug at his heart, and in the end, he decided that a feather-light peck on the cheek would not do any harm.
Decision made, Thranduil left his chambers.
Author's note: Well, that's the first chapter of the first LOTR story I have ever published! Feel free to tell me what you liked or disliked about it :D I am a fairly new writer in this fandom and I would love to hear from you! I'm also not opposed to criticism if it helps me to sculpt this story the right way, so please keep this in mind.