This story is my response to the following Ardor in August prompt:
Rating up to = NC-17
Requested pairing = Any Fellowship/ Thranduil
Story elements = What if the Fellowship had passed through Mirkwood instead of Lothlorien after leaving Moria? (feel free to ignore the geographical awkwardness of that). I'm perfectly fine with Crack, non-crack, fluff, romance or serious. I just prefer no heavy angst, but other than that, whatever way the Muses lead, I'm good with.
Do NOT include = no death (other than in reference), no rape/ non-con (again, reference to it is acceptable), no scat, no watersports.
Disclaimer: J.R.R. Tolkien et al own all things related to the wonderful characters and lands of Middle Earth; I'm just borrowing. No copyright infringement is intended.
Acknowledgements: Many thanks to my awesome betae, Ignoblebard and Carol, for all their help and support. Any mistakes in the final draft are mine alone.
It was a pleasure to write this for you, Nuinzilien — I hope you enjoy it!
Let it be known that on this day, December the 25th, in the year three-thousand and eighteen of the Third Age, Middle-Earth, did the Fellowship of the Ring set forth from Rivendell on a quest to destroy the One Ring. Their burden is great, and their journey will be fraught with many dangers unforeseen, yet they carry within their hearts the hope of all who would see darkness forever banished from these lands.
Let their names and their courage be remembered by all:
The Ring-Bearer, Frodo Baggins, son of Drogo
Mithrandir, the Grey Wanderer
Aragorn, son of Arathorn
Legolas Thranduilion
Gimli, son of Glóin
Boromir, son of Denethor II
Peregrin Took, son of Paladin II
Samwise Gamgee, son of Hamfast
Meriadoc Brandybuck, son of Saradoc
Thranduil Oropherion let the scroll, newly arrived by carrier bird, slip from his fingers, where it floated downward, settling amongst the clutter of his desk. He sank heavily into his chair, a wave of distress overwhelming him.
"It begins..." His whisper, so remarkably loud in the stillness of his study, begged the question he was loath to voice: But how will it end?
Ghastly memories resurfaced against Thranduil's will: an expansive swath of death and destruction on the plains of Dagorlad... his father, Oropher, lying in a pool of blood and filth, his fëa already departed to Mandos' Halls... all the grief and fear and hatred that followed, twisting together like a sharp, multi-pronged blade slicing through his own heart. And now...
With a deep, deliberate breath, Thranduil clenched his jaw. He glared at the piece of vellum, gaze focused on his son's name, written in such careful, elegant script. It was nestled safely amongst those of the other brave souls willing to forfeit their lives if necessary, all in the name of peace. Legolas's journey would retrace Thranduil's own path straight to Mordor, straight to the same unrelenting evil he had faced more than an Age ago. And because of that, Thranduil understood better than most the full magnitude of the quest at hand.
There was nothing safe about it. Nothing at all.
A soft knock on the door pulled Thranduil from his thoughts. "Enter."
Galion, his butler, poked his head inside the room. "Radagast has arrived, my lord."
"Send word to the healers."
"I have already done so."
"Very good," Thranduil said as he got up. Since his advisors were more than capable of handling the necessary details, he didn't usually make a point of greeting the peculiar wizard during his stops. Doing so today, however, would be a most welcome distraction. Offering Galion a curt nod, Thranduil slipped past him and made his way into the dimly lit corridor.
By the time he reached the antechamber just inside the main gates, it was already brimming with artisans of the Woodland Realm. They stood ready to trade their wares for rare herbs found only in the southern regions of Mirkwood and potent elixirs brewed by Radagast himself — all things desperately needed by their healers.
Thranduil paused in the entryway, observing the proceedings curiously. The bartering was well underway, though it was nothing more than a loose formality. According to what he'd been told, the wizard's tastes never veered far from basic foodstuffs, baubles, and forged wares, and he never insisted upon exacting terms, accepting only what he really needed in return. His willingness to harvest and trade the healing herbs made Radagast the most valuable merchant east of the Misty Mountains, despite his rather bizarre disposition.
Meandering his way through the throng, Thranduil passed the healers, who were hard at work sorting the newly acquired bundles and phials. Their smiles and animated chatter were a welcome sight... a blessing, really, amid the ominous and oppressive air that currently held Mirkwood — and, indeed, all of Middle-earth — hostage. It certainly appeared as though they would be well stocked with curative supplies for the winter without having to dispatch their own gathering parties.
He was but a few steps from his goal when the wizard, still dripping from the early morning showers, turned in his direction. "Ahh, Thranduil! Most esteemed Lord of the Woodland Realm, I bid a very robust and good morrow to you!" Radagast called. The song birds nesting beneath his ridiculous hat all chirped and fluttered, struggling to right themselves when he removed it and offered the Elven-King a low, respectful bow.
Thranduil's brows knitted together as a small puddle of rainwater and bird poo plopped to the floor at his feet. One deep breath and ten silently counted heartbeats later, he offered Radagast a weak smile that contained all the warmth he could possibly muster. "Welcome to my Halls." Next time, Thranduil, let your advisors handle the wizard...
Radagast straightened, flashing him a toothy grin. "As always, I am most happy to be of service."
"We've come to expect your visits a bit earlier in the season," Thranduil commented, eyeing the wooden sled parked nearby. Six brown rabbits were perched on its rickety frame, all carefully grooming themselves around the harnesses they wore.
"Yes, well, Rhosgobel fell into disrepair thanks to those vile spiders. Such nasty, nasty creatures! I wanted to finish all the patch work before any more inclement weather set in."
"And how long will we be... graced with your company?" Thranduil asked, forcing himself to remain polite even though the stench of dirty, wet clothing and animal droppings was beginning to churn the contents of his stomach.
Radagast scratched his beard with a filthy finger. "Not long, unfortunately. I'm due to arrive in Dale by nightfall. I've a rather large order of Essence of Cabbage to deliver."
"Essence of Cabbage?" What an odd notion.
The wizard chuckled. "One of the Mead Hall tavern keeps is convinced a drop or two of this tonic, added to one's beverage of choice, prevents all the ensuing aftereffects of drunkenness."
Curious, Thranduil asked, "And does it?"
"Of course not. All it does is make them toot more, which I'm sure livens up the taproom by the end of the evening. A stronger variant of Essence of Mint is what the tavern keep is looking for, but since he's quite large and smelly and prone to much incivility, I simply keep making what he asks for. A nip of the Blackberry ale I receive in exchange is most welcome on a cold winter's day."
A wayward thought struck Thranduil at that very moment, its implications making him slightly light-headed. "You concoct things other than healing draughts," he murmured. Why hadn't he thought of this earlier?
Radagast's bushy brows rose. "Is there something specific that you seek, my lord?"
Glancing around the room to be sure those gathered were otherwise occupied, Thranduil leaned closer to the wizard. "Have you anything that grants... protection?" he asked quietly. While he felt far more comfortable with the tangible, controllable aspects of the world around him, Thranduil was more than willing to entertain anything that would assure his son's safe return from the clutches of evil.
"I've no potions to that effect, but there is a spell. From what or whom, exactly, are you trying to protect yourself?"
"It is not for me."
"Ah, well," Radagast replied, "I would need to be in the presence of the person to whom the spell will apply, and even then it's a rather minor incantation, very limited in power and scope."
Thranduil's expression fell, helplessness gnawing at his heart. Was there nothing he could do beyond entreating Ilúvatar himself? His would be nothing more than one prayer lost amid countless others, mere background noise to the supreme deity.
"I do, however," the wizard continued, his blue eyes sparkling, "have something that will grant a wish..."
"A wish?" Thranduil whispered, a tiny flicker of hope beginning to warm his soul.
Shuffling over to his sled, Radagast began digging through his various packs, muttering incoherently to himself. "Aha!" he finally exclaimed, pulling a carefully wrapped cloth bundle from one of them.
Thranduil stepped closer, watching with bated breath as Radagast untied and pulled back the folds to reveal... "A mushroom?" he asked, somewhat disappointed. The delicate fungus had an unusual pinkish-white cap with light green gills beneath. It was a variety Thranduil had never seen before, but really... a mushroom?
"Not just any mushroom," the wizard proclaimed, grinning from ear to ear. "This," he continued softly, "is the Mushroom of Fortune. It is imbued with the very blessings of the Belain."
Thranduil's eyes widened. The Belain, should they be so moved, had the power to level mountains or change the course of history. They had the power to heal, to offer mercy... to protect! Still, a tendril of disbelief wove its way into his resolve. He couldn't help but toss the wizard a suspicious glare.
Radagast held up his hand. "I know what you're thinking, but I jest not."
"What reassurances could you possibly offer with a claim as incredible as this?"
"Well, you do know where I live," the wizard admitted sheepishly. At Thranduil's obvious confusion, he continued, "The pits of Sauron's spawn hath no fury like King Thranduil scorned — or so they say. I'm not very keen to test that theory, if you catch my gist."
Thranduil wasn't entirely convinced. "From where did you procure this?"
"I didn't procure it," Radagast replied. "I saved it, and trust me when I say you don't wish to know from whom. It's a rather grisly tale."
Thranduil stared at the fungus, so seemingly innocent and benign. What did he have to lose? Speaking of which... "What would you ask for in return?"
Another grin found its way to Radagast's face. "Given the powerful nature of its enchantment, I think it's worth... ohhh, perhaps a few barrels of your finest Dorwinion Red?"
Jaw clenched, Thranduil glowered at the wizard. There were only two things in this world he considered precious beyond all measure: his son and his wine. He closed his eyes and rubbed them, knowing any argument clamoring in the back of his mind was worthless in the face of his son's potential safety. "As you wish," he finally conceded.
"Delivered to Rhosgobel in three days' time?"
Thranduil gaped, his expression darkening. An overland journey through the most dangerous part of Mirkwood, just to deliver wine? Such a task would require at least half a guard detail to ensure safe passage!
"I haven't enough room on my sled, you see," Radagast continued, seemingly unconcerned with the rapidly cooling social temperature surrounding them, "and I have at least three more stops to make before my journey is complete."
"That's a rather bold request."
"Well," Radagast murmured, already starting to wrap the mushroom back up, "if you're not interested, I'm sure I can find—"
"All right!" Thranduil hissed quietly. "Two barrels, delivered." Radagast the Fool, indeed; the wizard was far craftier than he could have ever imagined. "This had better work," he warned.
"Oh, you have my word it will." Radagast passed the fungus to Thranduil. Before letting go, the wizard's expression grew somber. "Choose your wish very wisely before eating the mushroom, my lord, for this is no simple spell. It is divine in nature — big ears will be listening, so take care to remember: fickle is the wish that meddles with Fate..."
Radagast continued his admonitory nattering, but his voice quickly faded into the background. Thranduil's world had already narrowed to the small bundle cradled in his hands. A single wish. A single mushroom, consumed, and Legolas would be safe. That was all that mattered.
"...so bear that in mind, as well," the wizard finished, watching as Thranduil carefully stashed the mushroom away in a hidden pocket inside his robe. When he didn't respond, Radagast's eyebrows furrowed. "Are you quite certain you understand everything, my lord?"
"Yes, yes," Thranduil murmured impatiently. "You have been most helpful. I hope you enjoy your wine," he offered before turning and winding his way back through the antechamber, leaving the wizard blinking in surprise.
Thranduil stopped briefly to give orders for the wine delivery to one of his stewards, and then set off for his study as fast as his long legs could carry him. The corridors of his Halls had never seemed so long or so dreary, the dimness a fitting metaphor for his beloved son's fate. But now Thranduil had a reason to believe all would be well, and he clung to that with all that he was.
On reaching the safety of his private chambers, he unlatched the door to his study and hurried inside, remembering at the last moment to hang the elegant cord of dried oak leaves on the peg just outside. It was a signal to his servants that he wished to remain undisturbed. After closing and locking the door, Thranduil made for his desk, where he finally set his precious bundle down and unwrapped it.
The mushroom was striking, really, a dizzying array of whites and pinks all swirled together in an intricate, repetitive pattern that shimmered lightly. The delicate brown stem had rippled tiers, the edges of which sparkled with the same pinkish-white coloring, as well. Even its scent, so sweetly fragrant, was a far cry from the earthy pungency he'd been expecting. It all hinted at something transcendent... something magical and powerful. And it was his to command.
Thranduil inhaled deeply, meditating on that sudden realization. His wish had to be perfectly worded; there could be no ambiguity whatsoever, and that would require thought. And time. The Fellowship's journey was just beginning though, and they were still far from the wretched evil of Mount Doom. Yes, he had time...
Rewrapping the mushroom, Thranduil laid it carefully in one of his desk drawers, taking care to secure it with lock and key. He then grabbed a stack of parchment and his quill, eagerly beginning his own quest for the perfect utterance to set the magic in motion.
I wish that the Fellowship of the Ring should succeed in their quest.
He paused, rereading what he'd written. It was a noble sentiment, yes, but not one that would guarantee anyone's safety, much less Legolas's. Scratching it out, he tried another thought.
I wish that Legolas Thranduilion should survive the quest to destroy the One Ring.
Yes! Succinctly stated, with little room for misinterpretation...
Thranduil's gaze reluctantly slid to the proclamation he'd received from Rivendell, focusing on the names written there. All nine of them. And suddenly, his heart felt very, very heavy.
Frodo Baggins. The name rang a bell. Thranduil had encountered a Baggins once, a clever halfling who'd liberated a group of dwarves from his own dungeons.
Mithrandir. Was there anyone in Middle Earth who didn't know and admire the curious old wizard? His incomparable fireworks displays during Mereth-nuin-Giliath were the stuff of Mirkwood legend.
Aragorn, otherwise known as Strider. A man perched on the cusp of greatness should he only reach out and see fit to embrace his destiny. Thranduil knew him well.
Gimli, son of Glóin. A dwarf, obviously. Glóin, Glóin, Glóin... something about that name sounded vaguely familiar.
Boromir. The current Steward of Gondor's son. A mighty and capable warrior, he had heard.
Samwise, Peregrin, and Meriadoc... more halflings, Thranduil surmised, though why the Council of Elrond had deemed it acceptable to send so many innocents on such a grave quest, he could not understand.
With a heavy sigh, Thranduil set down his quill and got up. It was far too early in the day for wine to be flowing, but it was something he desperately needed right now. Filling his goblet to the brim, he took a sip, relishing the warmth that seemed to slide all the way down to his toes. It did little to lift his spirits, though.
Was it selfish of him to want to protect his son? Thranduil considered this, coming to the conclusion that no, it was not. Was it selfish of him to want to protect his son at the potential expense of those with whom he was traveling? The answer to that was all too painfully clear. Thranduil was overbearing in nature, rigid in his ruling, and overly cautious when dealing with outsiders — all qualities that had helped keep his kingdom safe without the help of one of the Rings of Power, yet he understood well the value of all life. On a quest as important and perilous as this, no one being could take precedence.
Tipping his head back, Thranduil downed the rest of the wine. Then he filled his goblet again, nearly spilling its entire contents when inspiration struck anew. He rushed back to his desk and took up his quill once more.
I wish that the entire Fellowship should survive the quest to destroy the One Ring.
Thranduil smiled at his ingenuity... but that smile quickly began to fade as he pondered further. What if the success of the quest was dependent upon the sacrifice of certain lives? Wishing for all to survive could irrevocably change the course of history, possibly allowing Sauron to succeed with his diabolical plans. Middle-earth could be lost to evil...
"Oh, for the love of Eru," Thranduil whispered, exasperated by the conundrum in which he found himself. He gulped more of his wine, needing to numb the sense of dread he felt growing in the pit of his stomach.
I wish that the entire Fellowship should both survive and succeed in their quest to destroy the One Ring.
Technically, that was asking for two things. Would the Belain honor both? Probably not. Gritting his teeth so hard his jaw began to hurt, Thranduil tried another possibility.
I wish that the quest to destroy the One Ring should be successful without sacrificing Legolas Thranduilion's life.
Now he was back to being selfish again... Growling, Thranduil dropped his quill and crumpled up the parchment, throwing it into the still smoldering embers of his fireplace. He watched with some satisfaction as the vellum succumbed to the elements, igniting into flames that spent themselves quickly, leaving naught but a small sprinkling of ash behind. What an impossible situation.
It should have been so simple. And yet, it wasn't.
Fickle is the wish that meddles with Fate, Radagast had told him. Be very careful what you wish for. Very careful, indeed.
That warning continued to haunt Thranduil the next day, and the day after... and then the day after that. Hundreds of sheets of parchment met their fiery end in the Elven-King's fireplace, and yet he continued to work relentlessly, trying to find that perfect combination of words. A bottle of wine turned into two... then a small keg... and finally, an entire barrel was brought to his study, much the same as those that had been transported to Rhosgobel. Ignoring Galion's worried expression, Thranduil forsook his bejeweled goblet entirely and commanded the butler to bring him the largest ale mug that could be found. One of Dwarven make, as it turned out.
It was from that same mug that Thranduil drank three very long weeks later. He was still at his desk, still staring at the pile of parchment paper in front of him, still twirling his quill in the other hand, ready to compose yet another prospective wish. The sense of urgency he felt was nearly palpable; the longer he delayed initiating the wish, the closer Legolas got to Mordor.
Thranduil was already deep into his second mug of wine for the evening, not that it mattered. The weight of innumerable consequences was suffocating him, with or without the potent brew. He took a hearty quaff, and then another. His vision was mostly blurred from lack of rest and his head swam, but the soft buzzing in his ears offered some measure of comfort. It went on like this for hours until, in a moment of profound despair, Thranduil finally set his mug down, buried his head in his hands, and wept. He was tired... tired of weighing the fate of his son against that of all Middle-earth. He just wanted Legolas to be safe. Was it so wrong for a father to long for such?
Thranduil grabbed blindly for the key to his desk drawer. Unlocking the compartment, he pulled out the bundle and laid it before him. It had become the bane of his existence, and yet he couldn't bring himself to destroy it. Clumsy fingers undid the folds of material, exposing the delicate mushroom at last. It hadn't shriveled up or spoiled — yet another sign of its magical properties. Instead, it sat quietly, mocking him with each resplendent sparkle on its surface.
Without conscious thought, Thranduil picked up the mushroom, mesmerized by its radiance. Perhaps it was time to end this, destiny be damned. Holding it close, he whispered the first words that managed to filter through his overwhelming despair: "Please... let me see my son again." Then he pushed the mushroom past his lips and chewed every last savory bite. Leaning back in his chair, the King of the Woodland Realm closed his tired eyes and swallowed, entirely unaware of the invisible vortex of magical energy that swirled around him, reaching higher and higher, past the living, breathing walls of his fortress and into the sky, where it quickly changed trajectory, accelerating towards the peaks of the Misty Mountains.
Three days later, just beyond the Gladden Fields...
"Oh, for pity's sake. You are a ranger, are you not?"
Aragorn craned his neck, shooting a menacing glare in Boromir's direction. Gritting his teeth, he answered, "You know full well the answer to that."
The Gondorian warrior was not so easily appeased. "Then why, pray tell, have we been wandering aimlessly for days? I see no fabled Golden Wood in sight!"
With exaggerated patience, Aragorn explained, "A damaged map is not so easily interpreted."
Boromir snorted, and then began walking away from the company of wearied, heartsick travelers.
"Where are you going?" Aragorn demanded.
"To relieve myself!" Boromir spat. "But you needn't worry. Unlike you, I am in no danger of getting lost!"
Aragorn watched the man disappear into a thicket. He'd never wanted to strike someone so badly before. Boromir's constant nagging had frayed his nerves ever since they'd left Moria behind three days ago.
Three days...
With a heavy sigh, he refocused his attention on the tattered map in his hands. Much of the ink had bled, leaving both words and landforms misshapen or altogether obliterated. Not even his lengthy travels across Middle-earth had permanently etched their intended path into his mind's eye. Without the valuable resource of an intact map, he could only make an educated guess as to which direction they needed to turn.
"Mister Aragorn, sir?"
The hesitant voice stirred him from his thoughts. Aragorn glanced down at the hobbit who had quietly appeared at his side. Poor Samwise Gamgee sounded as utterly guilty as he looked.
"I'm so sorry I dropped the map into the water," Sam continued. "When Mister Boromir was plodding us across the river, the clasp of my haversack must have come undone. All I saw were my rations falling into the water, and I panicked. Then I got really hungry."
"Sam—" he began, but the hobbit cut him off.
"I never felt it slip out. Honest! I was so focused on rescuing the food that I didn't even know what happened until Mister Frodo snatched the map from the current and yelled at me. My stupid stomach got us lost," Sam finished. He looked to be on the verge of tears.
Aragorn had to resist the urge to chuckle. "Sam, it was an accident. Accidents happen." He gave the hobbit's shoulder a reassuring squeeze. "We'll get through this."
Still looking forlorn, Sam wandered back towards his friends, but the space beside Aragorn wasn't empty for long. Legolas eased closer to him, murmuring, "We should keep moving. Finding a safe place to camp before nightfall is imperative."
"Agreed."
As soon as Boromir returned, the company pressed onward, the sparsely wooded area they'd just traversed giving way to a much thicker canopy of trees. The air was dank, oppressive, and very, very still. There were no signs of birds, rodents, or small game anywhere. The pinched expression on Legolas's face caused Aragorn no small amount of worry as they moved deeper into the forest. Something was very wrong here.
"Legolas?" he whispered. The elf could see and hear far better than any human, giving him a definite advantage in situations such as this.
"I do not believe the river we crossed back there was the Nimrodel at all, Aragorn," Legolas replied, his gaze scanning both trees and underbrush. "I think it was the Anduin. This is all starting to look very famil—"
A large group of elves suddenly burst through the foliage on all sides, including from above, their bows nocked and ready to deliver fatal shots to the trespassers. The Fellowship as a whole stopped in their tracks, eyes widening at the sheer number of weapons pointed in their direction.
"—ilar," Legolas finished, just as one of the elves in front of them relaxed his posture and his weapon.
The tall, dark-haired elf stared at Legolas a few moments longer, undisguised confusion coloring his expression. Then he spoke, his words causing more than a few eyebrows to rise.
"Hîr nín Legolas?"