*~FINISHING THE TAPESTRY~*
By the Emerald Queen
Disclaimer: I do not own any characters created by Tolkien, nor do I own any of the lands mentioned. I do, however, own many of the cast of this fiction. Legolas' brothers and sisters, to name but a few, and all the warriors who are with them. Please do not steal any of them. They are very precious. There are also one or two lines I've borrowed from book!verse Denethor.
A/N: This piece is written as an epilogue to Princes Of Mirkwood, and is set a couple of months after its last chapter. This has been planned for quite some time now, although I never got around to writing it, as I should have done. Apologies. Also introduced are three young elflings who play a large part in the next story I have planned. Oh, and I'm not writing any more chapters for it, just in case anybody asks.
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Three young elflings were playing in the great, high treetops which stood over the narrow, dark path used by their people to journey from west to east, and east to west, through the flowing depths of the forest. At this height in the trees, not too high but not too low, touches of sunlight just managed to play on the thick, mossy boughs whilst the elflings could just see the path below them.
One of the elflings, a beautiful young lad with large, watery blue eyes and long, golden-yellow hair reaching down his back, lay on his front on one of the lower branches, one leg dangling over the side of the thick perch. One of his long, skinny arms was reached out in front of him, a black squirrel not far away from it, sniffing curiously at a large nut in resting on the tips of the outstretched fingers.
Higher up in the next tree, the other two elflings watched the spectacle with interest. They sat side by side on a moss covered bough, swinging their legs in time to the beat of a tune being played on a flute and a harp in the distance. The elf sitting directly above the winding path was fiddling with a glass bead, throwing it up and down in the air. His companion gave him an annoyed look.
"Celrin, do you have any idea how annoying that is?" Her voice was a low whisper, as if she was trying not to disturb the elflings in the other tree. Celrin paused in his game, and then a naughty grin flashed across his face, half hidden in the dark shadows of the forest.
"Not half as annoying as it will be in a moment," came the whispered reply. Quick as a flash of lightning in a stormy sky, Celrin turned his attention back to the boy and the squirrel - the squirrel was now reaching out to take the nut - and flung the glass bead at the small black squirrel. With an angry chirrup, the squirrel fell off the dark branch and crashed through the thick dark layers of leaves until it caught hold of a branch, scrabbled for a moment, pulled itself up, and skittered off to find its lost dignity. The young elf with the nut still in his hand swung himself in to a sitting position and then glared at Celrin, who was now giggling with a wicked mirth.
"That was mean!"
The girl sitting next to the sniggering elfling was also outraged. She cuffed him over the head, almost making him follow the unfortunate black squirrel in to the unsure gloom that was the forest floor.
"Go Caranthon!"
This was greeted by a glare, the mirthfulness that had played on the young face of Celrin only a moment ago was now quickly replaced.
"It was only a joke, Squirrel!"
The elfling so appropriately nicknamed 'Squirrel' opened his mouth to make a reply, but something down on the forest floor caught his eye. He shut his mouth and swiftly shot down the tree to one of the lower branches, as nimble and lithe as any of the black squirrels could ever be, and he peered down at what seemed to be a procession of small, glittering lights which pierced the gloom of the forests summer. He was joined quickly by Caranthon and Celrin, one on either side of him, and together they tried to make out what was making the light.
"It could be the hunting party," suggested Caranthon after a moment.
Celrin shook his head.
"My ada told me that there was to be no hunting this month for any reason other than hunting orcs. Remember, it is almost a year since. . . since THAT happened."
The three elflings bowed their heads with reverence to 'that' event. 'That' being the sorrowful death of queen Imlammthien and her daughters; born and unborn. It was still a raw pain in the hearts of all the elves in Mirkwood, as their king had never quite stopped mourning, and ever since his sons had disappeared for the second time he had left the running of the forest lands to his advisors and captains, locking himself away for long periods of time.
"Perhaps it is travellers who are making their way through the forest to see the Dale men."
This time it was Squirrel's turn to shake his head, though a mortal watching them would have missed the small movement, their eyesight poor in the dark.
"No, mortals do not know about this path," he whispered as the lights drew closer. "Look! They are elves! It looks like captain Silnan at the front, but he disappeared last autumn, not long after the princes did!"
"Oh, and look!" replied Caranthon, forgetting to whisper, "That is captain Culkemen, Sulin's naneth! I am sure of it!"
"They have returned!" whispered Celrin in to the darkness surrounding them, the three elves sure of what they were seeing now. The Elven party of warriors was passing slowly beneath them. The youngster darted off in to the shadowy depths of the trees to tell the news to an elder, leaving Caranthon and Squirrel watching the band of returning elves.
"Who are those six riders?" asked Caranthon. Her shinning eyes were fixed on six figures on the backs of six fine horses, each of the riders hooded and cloaked, their heads bowed and their faces hidden from view by shadow.
Again, the young elf had forgotten to lower her voice. One of the hooded riders looked up at her and his hood fell back, revealing a wave of bright gold hair and a pale, pale face over which shadows made by the torchlight danced around. The two elflings gasped and sprang away, up high to the top branches of the tree where the summer sun bore down on them, lighting up their pale skin.
"That was prince Legolas!" gasped Squirrel, his watery blue eyes wide with shock at such unexpected but welcome news.
"We must tell the king!" squeaked Caranthon, "Come on!"
The pair of elflings sprang away, bounding through the tree tops under the blue, cloudless sky so quickly that they may as well have been sprinting over an open meadow, breathless to make their news heard by all.
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As the princes, still hooded and cloaked, dismounted their horses and allowed the loyal beasts to be lead away to the stable by gawping elves, they looked around at their beloved home, the place they had never thought to see again. As they passed by on their way to the entrance of their great, underground palace, elves paused in their duty to stare and at them and then, when they remembered themselves, they would drop to their knees or call out blessings.
As they entered the network of caves and smooth, high tunnels lit by flickering red torches hanging off the walls, surrounded by the same warriors that had escorted them all the way from the river, the six princes lowered their hoods one by one, revealing their faces at last. They followed their feet down paths they had once used almost every day of their lives, smiling to themselves as they listened to the blessings of greetings of lost friends and subjects.
At last, when they entered the great hall where the throne sat, a huge, beautiful cavern with a high ceiling and carved, smooth walls where detailed tapestries of ancient tales hung. Above the cold throne where Thranduil usually sat keeping it warm with one of his four crowns of leaves, berries and flowers, Legolas noticed a new tapestry. He gasped as he realised it was his own family.
The tapestry depicted a scene he had long forgotten about; a rare family picnic by the forest river that had taken place a month or so before Lord Elrond, Lady Celebrian and their people had arrived. With a small smile, Legolas found the image of himself looking much younger than he really had been, holding a wooden bowl full of water over Oroweth's head, about to empty it on to the unsuspecting prince. Next to Legolas stood Nilwethion, also looking much younger than he had been at the time, a mirthful expression on his face, and not far away Thellind was playing in the river with little Calensil. Astaler and Nuryävié were, as always, sitting discussing something with Oroweth. Sitting on a stone not very far away was their dear, beloved, deceased naneth, a smile on her face that seemed to preserve the memory of beauty Legolas remembered, her husband standing beside her. Her stomach was large and swelled, full with a baby, although at the time the pregnancy had not shown.
"We all look so young," came a voice from beside Legolas, snapping the blonde haired prince away from his concentration. The youngest prince looked sideways and saw Nuryävié standing beside him, also staring at the tapestry. Legolas nodded, realising that it was not only himself and Nilwethion looking like elflings; all his brothers were. Perhaps Thranduil was trying to keep them as the young children he had loved and protected. Children who he knew had loved him back.
"Where is our adar?" asked Oroweth. As the eldest prince spoke, Thellind was running his delicate hands over the arm of the throne where he remembered the king sitting in so many memories of his youth.
"He has locked himself away in his chamber, prince Oroweth," replied one of the advisors, "he refuses to let us in. His majesty will not speak with anyone."
"Then let us go and find him!" cried Nilwethion, impatient to see his once hated but now loved parent. He grabbed hold of Legolas' green, travel worn cloak and hauled his younger sibling away from the brightly woven tapestry with its gem stones sparkling the part of many happy, alert eyes.
The six princes hurried through the network of passages, making turns and shortcuts here and there, following their feet along the ancient paths. At last, after a few minutes of ducking down almost hidden turns and slipping through narrow passages, the princes came to the large, heavy, dark door that symbolised the entrance to the chamber they were searching for. Legolas knocked on it lightly, but after a long pause the princes realised that they would not be graced with a reply.
The young prince knocked again, louder this time.
"Leave me be! Let me mourn in peace!"
The princes stared at each other with an unhappy surprise. Although not one of them even so much as whispered the truth about the rising storms that were their newly miserable feelings, each one felt the old feeling that they were traitors.
"Adar, please do not mourn any longer!" called Astaler, kneeling down beside the door. He tilted his head, resting it sadly against the cold, hard woodwork.
"Adar? Adar!? There are none left here now to call me by that name! Stir not the cup of bitterness I have made for myself! My daughters have flown beyond my reach with my love, cut down before their lives were even begun!"
This short, heartfelt speech wrenched Legolas' heart like an icy grasp. He slipped down to the floor next to Astaler and traced the carved wooden vines on the door with his long, slender finger. He could find no words to speak, cursing himself inwardly for ever leaving Mirkwood and listening to Elladan and Elrohir. One of his brothers, however, did find words.
"What of your sons?" asked Nilwethion, his voice wavering with low, melancholy tones. Rebellious tear were forming in his eyes, forcing him to blink them back furiously to stop them rushing down his cheeks in a torrent of cold rain. Again, from inside the locked room there was a long pause. At last there came an answer, whispered so quietly the princes were forced to press their pointed ears to the door in order to hear the words that struck their hearts and souls like a death bell.
"Do not speak to me of my sons, my dearest, beautiful sons. They have left me for lies, and turned their faces away to seek their own ways in the world without their poor, heartbroken adar. They are lost to me! More precious to me than all the gems and metals in the world! They have passed like wind in the treetops; like the dying note of a lament; like. . ."
The voice of the great king of Mirkwood slid away beyond hearing, and then was replaced by the sound of worn out, world weary sobbing. "Oh, my sons, why do you hate me so?" cried Thranduil, his voice choked by sodden tears.
Outside the door, Legolas' face twisted with a bitter agony as his heart stuttered. Beside him, Astaler hid his face in his hands with a small, guilty moan. Standing above Legolas and Astaler, tears glistened like diamonds in the eyes of the princes and Thellind bit his quivering lip.
"Ada. . . do not cry for us!" called Legolas suddenly, unable to listen to the sound of the unhappy tears from a character who he had never known to cry in such a way. "Ada, we are here! All six of us! Please ada, come out!"
From inside the locked room, silence fell. The lack of sound spread like the high, tuneful voice of a nightingale, twisting its way through all the little gaps and nooks and crannies. At last, with a resounding click, the princes heard a key turn in the lock, freeing the ancient door. The door slowly swung open, pushed gently by a pale, quivering hand. At last, the face the princes all knew so well was revealed. King Thranduil looked at his sons with awe, his eyes red and surrounded by new lines and his cheeks puffed from all his crying. No crown was resting on his head as the princes remembered, his hair seemed to have become and lost its shine in the flickering lights and his robes were a simple, mossy green with none of the usual decoration, but it was still Thranduil. It was still their adar.
He stepped in to the corridor, staring in shock and disbelief, looking around at his sons through tear filled eyes that glowed in the middle of a waxy face.
"My sons," he whispered, "You have come back? You will not leave me again?"
Legolas smiled softly at the shaken king.
"Yes ada, we have come back, and no, we will not leave you again."
Thranduil threw his arms around Legolas, kissing him on the brow the way he had done when they were small, over-active elflings, running around the forest like little wild creatures, and then embraced and kissed each of Legolas' siblings in turn. At last, he stood facing them all, beaming like the moon in the middle of stars.
"Well, my dear sons," he said, "It seems we have a lot to talk about."
The End.
By the Emerald Queen
Disclaimer: I do not own any characters created by Tolkien, nor do I own any of the lands mentioned. I do, however, own many of the cast of this fiction. Legolas' brothers and sisters, to name but a few, and all the warriors who are with them. Please do not steal any of them. They are very precious. There are also one or two lines I've borrowed from book!verse Denethor.
A/N: This piece is written as an epilogue to Princes Of Mirkwood, and is set a couple of months after its last chapter. This has been planned for quite some time now, although I never got around to writing it, as I should have done. Apologies. Also introduced are three young elflings who play a large part in the next story I have planned. Oh, and I'm not writing any more chapters for it, just in case anybody asks.
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Three young elflings were playing in the great, high treetops which stood over the narrow, dark path used by their people to journey from west to east, and east to west, through the flowing depths of the forest. At this height in the trees, not too high but not too low, touches of sunlight just managed to play on the thick, mossy boughs whilst the elflings could just see the path below them.
One of the elflings, a beautiful young lad with large, watery blue eyes and long, golden-yellow hair reaching down his back, lay on his front on one of the lower branches, one leg dangling over the side of the thick perch. One of his long, skinny arms was reached out in front of him, a black squirrel not far away from it, sniffing curiously at a large nut in resting on the tips of the outstretched fingers.
Higher up in the next tree, the other two elflings watched the spectacle with interest. They sat side by side on a moss covered bough, swinging their legs in time to the beat of a tune being played on a flute and a harp in the distance. The elf sitting directly above the winding path was fiddling with a glass bead, throwing it up and down in the air. His companion gave him an annoyed look.
"Celrin, do you have any idea how annoying that is?" Her voice was a low whisper, as if she was trying not to disturb the elflings in the other tree. Celrin paused in his game, and then a naughty grin flashed across his face, half hidden in the dark shadows of the forest.
"Not half as annoying as it will be in a moment," came the whispered reply. Quick as a flash of lightning in a stormy sky, Celrin turned his attention back to the boy and the squirrel - the squirrel was now reaching out to take the nut - and flung the glass bead at the small black squirrel. With an angry chirrup, the squirrel fell off the dark branch and crashed through the thick dark layers of leaves until it caught hold of a branch, scrabbled for a moment, pulled itself up, and skittered off to find its lost dignity. The young elf with the nut still in his hand swung himself in to a sitting position and then glared at Celrin, who was now giggling with a wicked mirth.
"That was mean!"
The girl sitting next to the sniggering elfling was also outraged. She cuffed him over the head, almost making him follow the unfortunate black squirrel in to the unsure gloom that was the forest floor.
"Go Caranthon!"
This was greeted by a glare, the mirthfulness that had played on the young face of Celrin only a moment ago was now quickly replaced.
"It was only a joke, Squirrel!"
The elfling so appropriately nicknamed 'Squirrel' opened his mouth to make a reply, but something down on the forest floor caught his eye. He shut his mouth and swiftly shot down the tree to one of the lower branches, as nimble and lithe as any of the black squirrels could ever be, and he peered down at what seemed to be a procession of small, glittering lights which pierced the gloom of the forests summer. He was joined quickly by Caranthon and Celrin, one on either side of him, and together they tried to make out what was making the light.
"It could be the hunting party," suggested Caranthon after a moment.
Celrin shook his head.
"My ada told me that there was to be no hunting this month for any reason other than hunting orcs. Remember, it is almost a year since. . . since THAT happened."
The three elflings bowed their heads with reverence to 'that' event. 'That' being the sorrowful death of queen Imlammthien and her daughters; born and unborn. It was still a raw pain in the hearts of all the elves in Mirkwood, as their king had never quite stopped mourning, and ever since his sons had disappeared for the second time he had left the running of the forest lands to his advisors and captains, locking himself away for long periods of time.
"Perhaps it is travellers who are making their way through the forest to see the Dale men."
This time it was Squirrel's turn to shake his head, though a mortal watching them would have missed the small movement, their eyesight poor in the dark.
"No, mortals do not know about this path," he whispered as the lights drew closer. "Look! They are elves! It looks like captain Silnan at the front, but he disappeared last autumn, not long after the princes did!"
"Oh, and look!" replied Caranthon, forgetting to whisper, "That is captain Culkemen, Sulin's naneth! I am sure of it!"
"They have returned!" whispered Celrin in to the darkness surrounding them, the three elves sure of what they were seeing now. The Elven party of warriors was passing slowly beneath them. The youngster darted off in to the shadowy depths of the trees to tell the news to an elder, leaving Caranthon and Squirrel watching the band of returning elves.
"Who are those six riders?" asked Caranthon. Her shinning eyes were fixed on six figures on the backs of six fine horses, each of the riders hooded and cloaked, their heads bowed and their faces hidden from view by shadow.
Again, the young elf had forgotten to lower her voice. One of the hooded riders looked up at her and his hood fell back, revealing a wave of bright gold hair and a pale, pale face over which shadows made by the torchlight danced around. The two elflings gasped and sprang away, up high to the top branches of the tree where the summer sun bore down on them, lighting up their pale skin.
"That was prince Legolas!" gasped Squirrel, his watery blue eyes wide with shock at such unexpected but welcome news.
"We must tell the king!" squeaked Caranthon, "Come on!"
The pair of elflings sprang away, bounding through the tree tops under the blue, cloudless sky so quickly that they may as well have been sprinting over an open meadow, breathless to make their news heard by all.
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As the princes, still hooded and cloaked, dismounted their horses and allowed the loyal beasts to be lead away to the stable by gawping elves, they looked around at their beloved home, the place they had never thought to see again. As they passed by on their way to the entrance of their great, underground palace, elves paused in their duty to stare and at them and then, when they remembered themselves, they would drop to their knees or call out blessings.
As they entered the network of caves and smooth, high tunnels lit by flickering red torches hanging off the walls, surrounded by the same warriors that had escorted them all the way from the river, the six princes lowered their hoods one by one, revealing their faces at last. They followed their feet down paths they had once used almost every day of their lives, smiling to themselves as they listened to the blessings of greetings of lost friends and subjects.
At last, when they entered the great hall where the throne sat, a huge, beautiful cavern with a high ceiling and carved, smooth walls where detailed tapestries of ancient tales hung. Above the cold throne where Thranduil usually sat keeping it warm with one of his four crowns of leaves, berries and flowers, Legolas noticed a new tapestry. He gasped as he realised it was his own family.
The tapestry depicted a scene he had long forgotten about; a rare family picnic by the forest river that had taken place a month or so before Lord Elrond, Lady Celebrian and their people had arrived. With a small smile, Legolas found the image of himself looking much younger than he really had been, holding a wooden bowl full of water over Oroweth's head, about to empty it on to the unsuspecting prince. Next to Legolas stood Nilwethion, also looking much younger than he had been at the time, a mirthful expression on his face, and not far away Thellind was playing in the river with little Calensil. Astaler and Nuryävié were, as always, sitting discussing something with Oroweth. Sitting on a stone not very far away was their dear, beloved, deceased naneth, a smile on her face that seemed to preserve the memory of beauty Legolas remembered, her husband standing beside her. Her stomach was large and swelled, full with a baby, although at the time the pregnancy had not shown.
"We all look so young," came a voice from beside Legolas, snapping the blonde haired prince away from his concentration. The youngest prince looked sideways and saw Nuryävié standing beside him, also staring at the tapestry. Legolas nodded, realising that it was not only himself and Nilwethion looking like elflings; all his brothers were. Perhaps Thranduil was trying to keep them as the young children he had loved and protected. Children who he knew had loved him back.
"Where is our adar?" asked Oroweth. As the eldest prince spoke, Thellind was running his delicate hands over the arm of the throne where he remembered the king sitting in so many memories of his youth.
"He has locked himself away in his chamber, prince Oroweth," replied one of the advisors, "he refuses to let us in. His majesty will not speak with anyone."
"Then let us go and find him!" cried Nilwethion, impatient to see his once hated but now loved parent. He grabbed hold of Legolas' green, travel worn cloak and hauled his younger sibling away from the brightly woven tapestry with its gem stones sparkling the part of many happy, alert eyes.
The six princes hurried through the network of passages, making turns and shortcuts here and there, following their feet along the ancient paths. At last, after a few minutes of ducking down almost hidden turns and slipping through narrow passages, the princes came to the large, heavy, dark door that symbolised the entrance to the chamber they were searching for. Legolas knocked on it lightly, but after a long pause the princes realised that they would not be graced with a reply.
The young prince knocked again, louder this time.
"Leave me be! Let me mourn in peace!"
The princes stared at each other with an unhappy surprise. Although not one of them even so much as whispered the truth about the rising storms that were their newly miserable feelings, each one felt the old feeling that they were traitors.
"Adar, please do not mourn any longer!" called Astaler, kneeling down beside the door. He tilted his head, resting it sadly against the cold, hard woodwork.
"Adar? Adar!? There are none left here now to call me by that name! Stir not the cup of bitterness I have made for myself! My daughters have flown beyond my reach with my love, cut down before their lives were even begun!"
This short, heartfelt speech wrenched Legolas' heart like an icy grasp. He slipped down to the floor next to Astaler and traced the carved wooden vines on the door with his long, slender finger. He could find no words to speak, cursing himself inwardly for ever leaving Mirkwood and listening to Elladan and Elrohir. One of his brothers, however, did find words.
"What of your sons?" asked Nilwethion, his voice wavering with low, melancholy tones. Rebellious tear were forming in his eyes, forcing him to blink them back furiously to stop them rushing down his cheeks in a torrent of cold rain. Again, from inside the locked room there was a long pause. At last there came an answer, whispered so quietly the princes were forced to press their pointed ears to the door in order to hear the words that struck their hearts and souls like a death bell.
"Do not speak to me of my sons, my dearest, beautiful sons. They have left me for lies, and turned their faces away to seek their own ways in the world without their poor, heartbroken adar. They are lost to me! More precious to me than all the gems and metals in the world! They have passed like wind in the treetops; like the dying note of a lament; like. . ."
The voice of the great king of Mirkwood slid away beyond hearing, and then was replaced by the sound of worn out, world weary sobbing. "Oh, my sons, why do you hate me so?" cried Thranduil, his voice choked by sodden tears.
Outside the door, Legolas' face twisted with a bitter agony as his heart stuttered. Beside him, Astaler hid his face in his hands with a small, guilty moan. Standing above Legolas and Astaler, tears glistened like diamonds in the eyes of the princes and Thellind bit his quivering lip.
"Ada. . . do not cry for us!" called Legolas suddenly, unable to listen to the sound of the unhappy tears from a character who he had never known to cry in such a way. "Ada, we are here! All six of us! Please ada, come out!"
From inside the locked room, silence fell. The lack of sound spread like the high, tuneful voice of a nightingale, twisting its way through all the little gaps and nooks and crannies. At last, with a resounding click, the princes heard a key turn in the lock, freeing the ancient door. The door slowly swung open, pushed gently by a pale, quivering hand. At last, the face the princes all knew so well was revealed. King Thranduil looked at his sons with awe, his eyes red and surrounded by new lines and his cheeks puffed from all his crying. No crown was resting on his head as the princes remembered, his hair seemed to have become and lost its shine in the flickering lights and his robes were a simple, mossy green with none of the usual decoration, but it was still Thranduil. It was still their adar.
He stepped in to the corridor, staring in shock and disbelief, looking around at his sons through tear filled eyes that glowed in the middle of a waxy face.
"My sons," he whispered, "You have come back? You will not leave me again?"
Legolas smiled softly at the shaken king.
"Yes ada, we have come back, and no, we will not leave you again."
Thranduil threw his arms around Legolas, kissing him on the brow the way he had done when they were small, over-active elflings, running around the forest like little wild creatures, and then embraced and kissed each of Legolas' siblings in turn. At last, he stood facing them all, beaming like the moon in the middle of stars.
"Well, my dear sons," he said, "It seems we have a lot to talk about."
The End.