My first fanfic
Disclaimer: All thoughts, writing, and credit go to other authors who have inspired me to write this. Characters, events, and places belong to the amazing J.R.R Tolkien; I am merely borrowing. Thanks.
CHAPTER 1: FOND FAREWELL
Much I have seen and known, —cities of men
The drunk delight of battle with my kin
Far on the ringing plain of Erebor
I am part of all that I have met
Though here at war's end I lie
Only my heart, only my heart responds
Beyond sadness
The cold descended upon the two elves. Legolas and King Thranduil stood apart, motionless, surrounded by cold walls and the ruins of an old fortress.
"I, cannot go back," Legolas said sadly, blankly fixed his eyes on the opposite wall.
Betrayal.
The envy of Tauriel's misplaced heart caused his stomach to twist into a thousand knots, a different type of suffering than he was used to. And he knew chance of recovery was forlorn.
oOo
The slender silhouette of the younger elf caught the attention of Thranduil, ruler of the Woodland Realm. Behind the Legolas's eyes lay a lifeless glint that rivaled frosted glass. O, but at least his son was safe... It was all that mattered, and all was good now that he could confirm that his son had escaped the battle unscathed.
A sigh of relief escaped him, but he collected himself quickly. He masked his emotions behind his icy gaze, and bottled them up. He pushed them away, far away.
"And where will you go, Legolas?" He whispered softly. The words felt strange under his tongue, and his heart clenched in response.
"I do not know."
"Go to the North. Find the Dunedaîn," he ordered. "There is a young ranger amongst them. You should meet him. His father, Arathorn, was a good man – his eyes narrowed – and he might turn out to be an even greater one."
"What is his name?" Legolas asked, averting his eyes.
"He is known in the wild as Strider. His true name... You must discover for yourself."
Legolas nodded and whispered a slow parting: "Until I see you again. Farewell—father."
As his son made to walk away, he stopped him with a stern: "Halt." Legolas halted. "Before you depart... your mother loved you very much." As though reciting a poem, he said the phrase with grace and meaning. However, he had not anticipated his throat to cork shut or tears to spring beneath his closed eyelids.
Legolas raised a hand over his heart.
Don't go, I love you so, Thranduil repeated consistently in his mind. The chant hammered against the sides of his skull over and over again. He opened his mouth partway to utter his mind aloud—
But found he could not.
A heavy silence reigned, but was broken as he raised a hand to his own heart in effort to return the loving exchange. Legolas reached out, eyes filled with an obvious sadness, and then pivoted on his heels to continue walking. His footfalls grew fainter and fainter against the stone floor until silence once again hung about the air like a curse.
Goodbye. Perhaps I will see you soon. Perhaps not, Thranduil thought sadly. If his heart was breaking he could only imagine what his son must be feeling. Just the same, I wish you well...
My Little Greenleaf.
oOo
Beautiful snowflakes descended softly upon the vast plain under Erebor. This delicate appearance, however, went unnoticed by the survivors; and failed to rival the splendor of a hard-won victory. As the frost cascaded deftly unto their skin, all that was felt was its' icy sting. The white blanket made it difficult to search for fallen brothers and it nipped at their faces. It seemed to promise that this was not a dream, but the reality of war.
With the battle of the five armies at its end, the devastation of it was clear. Bodies littered the ground; it carpeted the field. Whether they were Orc, Men, Elves, Dwarves, or Goblin, it truly was a horrific sight to behold.
Legolas did not look behind, only ahead, and with one glance outside a blast of chilly wind greeted him, polishing his cheekbones. He grimaced. The sight of what had befallen below the mountain was devastating. Such destruction – greed the reason – should not be.
But it was so.
"Hiro hyn hidh ab 'wanath," he said in lament.
Brushing a piece of hair that had fallen between his eyes, he sighed, the breathy sound a tune in itself. O how he ached. Physically, he was slightly winded from his combat with Bolg whilst protecting Tauriel, but the bitter feelings of the memory gnawed at his insides. It mattered not, not now anyway. He cast them aside as if they were garments he did not choose to wear.
At once, he glided down the ice, and made his way down the icy slope to where he had seen Thorin Oakenshield's fall. Had death claimed him? Yes, his eyesight was keen, but he hoped that it was a ruse; for he was good-hearted, and death (although he would not admit it), frightened him. Especially the fate of the Mountain King.
As he approached the limp figure, the ghastly sight of the Dwarf lord became clearer. Ah, so it was truth. The king's muddled clothing was bloodstained and had painted the ice red. He was pale – much too pale that it reflected the ice he lay upon.
His eyes washed over another figure beside Thorin.
Poor Bilbo. The hobbit lay sniffling, clutching Thorin's arm much too tight as if the king would vanish to dust. Legolas sighed, and threaded his hair in distraction. Bilbo seemed like the one to have an open heart for friends. It was beyond astonishing that this low, insignificant creature could manage to slip under Mirkwood's finest security, leading to the company's escape.
The vague memory had been an insult, for his father's fortress was superiorly defensed and such an incident had not occured in more than a millenia. Following thereafter, the King had not taken the news lightly, burning in silent ire before doubting Legolas's ability to contain them. Even now, how had the Hobbit pulled off such a trick?
He leapt on a ledge opposite Bilbo's crouched position.
"Man le trasta, Bilbo? Is your heart at peace?" He said.
His smooth voice snapped Bilbo out of his silent mourning. After several seconds of collection, Bilbo answered with a squeaky: "Can you not see around you?" The hobbit's shoulders sagged even further. "Most of my friends walk with the dead now and Thorin... It is rather obvious inn'it?"
Bilbo made a tiny choking noise that Legolas could not comprehend making him doubt whether he was helping or making things worse; for he knew naught of death, never experiencing the outcome of losing a loved one before.
"Do as you will," Legolas replied, then turned away.
"H-Halt," Bilbo called. Legolas turned and mirrored his father's frosted gaze. The hobbit swallowed. "I mean, please. Please wait."
Legolas stopped gelid as a shaky hand found his arm. His first instinct was to remove it, but his consideration kept him from being disrespectful.
"—Didn't mean to make you uncomfortable," the hobbit continued, "but grief has taken a toll on my personality." Bilbo flashed a broken smile.
"It's quite alright," Legolas said cheerily, and mustered the most gentlest smile he could manage. However, he avoided eye contact. Expressing emotions was rare, barely revealing any himself other than the cheery mask he wore from time to time.
Legolas observed as Bilbo's eyes washed over him, studying his own unwavering features. White frost had collected on his eyelashes, no doubt appearing to the hobbit as utterly divine in comparison to his muscular body, (he had been told this not many winters ago from his father).
"Um, well... I just wanted to know if..." Bilbo coughed loudly and rocked on his heels.
"Yes?" Legolas pressed.
"There is something bothering you as well isn't there?" Bilbo said tentatively. "I'm not much but I could listen. As you are the son of Thranduil, I respect your privacy."
Legolas knew he had to give some sort of answer, but a lie would not suffice. Yet, how could he explain the the things that gyrated in his mind? That the whenever he pictured the flowing breeze he saw Tauriel's crimson hair wallowing in timely rhythm? And then there was the Dwarf who had stolen—
"Master elf?"
"Aye, it seems you give me no choice, Baggins of the Shire," Legolas said with faint amusement. He bowed his head in respect. "My heart walks in mist and shadows, for a feeling I have never felt before has seized it."
At this, he hid his eyes behind his tousled hair. At least some truth lies in this phrase, he thought. He had never felt the way he did before now. Tauriel's betrayal haunted him, cursed him, caused memories shared to burn to ashes.
Bilbo merely stared back. He knew naught what terrible turmoil and jealousy riddled the elf's mind.
Feeling out of place, he gave Bilbo a jerked nod. He thought it wise to carry out his fathers orders. Pulling back his long, tussled hair to revert it to its original form, he leapt down. But as Bilbo's eyes left him, Legolas hid behind an icy stone. From his position he heard someone familiar utter a low: "What a stubborn elf Legolas can be sometimes."
He scowled at this from behind his eavesdropping place then resumed observing.
A startled Bilbo turned quickly, only to be face to face with the Wizard. His grey robe held no stains, but his wrinkled face was etched with grime and scratches.
"It looks as though Mirkwood's Prince has inherited his audacious behavior from his father," Gandalf said absently – Legolas frowned.
"Gandalf!" Bilbo exclaimed, face brightening. "You nearly startled me to death!" Reassurance pulsated through his light actions at once, the appearance of his dear friend the cause. "Um, shall we... sit?" Bilbo offered. As if the remembrance of the King Under the Mountain had surged once again, grief streaked across his face.
"It is odd how memory and love can destroy you so," he heard Bilbo croak. The words tumbled in the way the hobbit worded it, and shook as if he were trying to hold back tears.
Gandalf lightly patted Bilbo on the back. "Indeed, but it is how you cope with it that matters whether it's moving on and finding another to ease the pain, but never looking behind.
Leaving the conversation here, Legolas continued down the mountain. In the distance, The Lonely Mountain towered like a giant across the demolished plains of Erebor. It truly was lonely. He had a feeling Gandalf knew he was listening, and it was not until many years later did he realize he wanted him to hear every word he said.
oOo
He reached the frost covered ground with a soft thump. The distinct cries of mourning had drowned out the cheering of victory.
The sound of sorrow is not one I wish to hear nor ever in my long life, he thought sadly. He knew this statement was false, however. As a prince, he had duties to carry out as best as he could afford, for he lived to obey and tend to his king's every command. But his heart?
It is the one thing my father holds no control over, he remembered. The promise he had announced, he would keep.
Apathetically, he gave a small glance to where he had last seen Tauriel and the dwarf scum that she proclaimed as her long-lasting love. He had fought for her, protected her, stood up for her, and what had she returned? That her heart lay with another. A Dwarf.
"Elves usually only love once," he muttered bitterly.
Suddenly, as if he had plunged into icy depths, his heart throbbed. In one swift motion, an explosion of pain shot everywhere throughout his everything, as if he had been stabbed by a thousand knives at once. He clenched his hands over his heaving chest in response. Wondering whether he was actually aflame or whether anyone noticed, ebbed the pain lightly. Yet... he knew exactly why his technique and grace faltered, but the thought of it had never once crossed his mind in the past.
O Valar, please let this not be so!
He stumbled like a clumsy troll, reaching for anything to steady himself with. He stifled a gasp as he slipped on a sheet of fresh ice. Slipped. Reflexes taking shape, he twisted in midair, making hard contact with the cold earth, one knee out to avoid landing awkwardly. Landing in perfect form, his breath was stolen once again. The ringing in his ears gradually ceased their jeering tune, and he cautiously looked around.
The vast plain was just as it was several moments past.
At least no one was around to witness his carelessness. If anything, he was more irritated and uneasy with his unexpected flaw.
He relaxed. Instead of his usual musing, he spectacled that winters' chill seemed to be affecting his sense of balance – nothing more. He quickly got to his feet, crunching the sliver of ice covering the plain. More of his dignity was wounded than anything. In slight shame, he remembered his task, ignoring the decreasing pain in his chest.
Strider? Who was this Strider? An elf? A dwarf? He shuddered.
Gliding over the bloodstained snow in search of his beloved steed, his pace hastened. Out of ignorance or embarrassment, he knew not.
This weakness troubled him deeply; failing to carry on was not an option. He despised vulnerability and would rather die before admitting he was a fragile being. Nay. Such a thing was beyond imaginary. He was a seasoned warrior, not a porcelain doll, and should never be treated as such!
A distinct pain in his abdomen brought him back down to reality however, disintegrating his usual thoughts of duty. He groaned at the twinge of pain, and held a hand over his chest instinctively. He was emotionless, incapable to love other than the trees of home. And Tauriel - Tauriel held naught for him, other than simply a companion or mellon (friend).
Is this why these memories plague me?
A sharp flare erupted from the side of his chest, and the answer was clear. Taking deep breaths, his breath hitched in his lungs. He sighed and thought: This Strider better be worth the time and pain I am burdened with.
And in a flash of gold and green, he made his way toward toward Dale.
Man le trasta - What troubles you
Hiro hyn hidh ab 'wanath - May they find peace after death