Title: Thranduilion
Author: Milliecake
Category: General, Angst, Adventure
Rating: PG
Summary: A set of tales following the life of Legolas Greenleaf, from early birth, to his first adventure, through to the War of the Ring.
Disclaimer: Characters contained within this fic belong to Tolkien.
Author's Notes: A mixture of both movie verse and book, this could not have been written without the most excellent essay Legolas of Mirkwood: Prince Among Equals by Ellen Brundige, which intrigued me enough to write this tale.
******
Chapter One – Thranduilion
Eryn Galen, Third Age 2321...
The light of the dying day passed quickly into gloom and it seemed the last of the leaves had fallen for the year, though the trees appeared incongruously heavy and bent with their loss. A sharp and bitter wind cut serpentine through the autumnal wood, bearing on frost-tinged air the melancholy sound of Elvish lament.
In haste the company from Imladris had set out, yet now they slowed their beasts, confusion and despair written upon many a fair Elven face as hope abandoned them at last. Astride his steed, Elrond bowed his head, the song of grief that travailed so hauntingly through the stark and empty woodland burdening him with a bitter knowledge of what had come to pass. Too late, he grieved, and glanced to the telling boughs above. Even the trees mourn...
"Hir nin?" he heard Erestor, his trusted advisor query softly, reminding Imladris' Lord they had not the luxury of time to dwell upon heartache.
"We must go on." Elrond spoke purposefully, rallying his company's faltering spirits. "My skills may yet be in need, for were not there two involved in this unhappy business?"
With that he spurred his horse onwards once more, determined to lose no more time. If the passing of one was sorrowful, to lose both would be doubly grievous and he prayed the grace of the Valar would not allow such a tragedy to come to pass.
So it was with a swiftness their company descended upon a funereal scene in a clearing open to the stars, the light of Earendil fading as the adventurer of the heavens sailed further into the darkness beyond the world. Here the beeches seemed less touched by the season than many, here where even one not of Silvan blood could hope to find joy and rest and merriment amongst the trees.
But now the air was subdued and sorrowful, the woodland elves who would oft rejoice so readily in the twilight beneath bough and leaf, distraught in their grief. Dismounting, Elrond searched their faces, seeing a sharp and keening distress as they openly wept their sorrows, yet little of the confusion and despairing wonderment that assailed his own people.
Long has death been an ever constant shadow, Elrond thought, here where the Enemy made his stronghold. Here where there is no Ring of Power to protect them.
The weight of Vilya, the Ring of Sapphire, had never seemed so great a burden though it lay many leagues over meadow and mountain, safely ensconced in the valley Men called Rivendell. Elrond knew with keen foresight that were it not for the gift of Gil-galad, his father's light would shine less brightly upon his home and Imladris too would be lost to the shadow that even now plagued their woodland kin.
Making his way through the shrouded gathering, Erestor at his side, Elrond heard the Captain's breathy 'Ai Elbereth!' and had at last his fears confirmed. They had laid their queen upon a bed of living wood and there was a wreath around her dark brow, woven from the late seasoning wild flowers that grew at the foot of the Mountains South of the King's hall. But not even Melian herself could have healed a body so grievously sundered of its fea, for it was clear the spirit had left some time during the bright day for the Halls of Mandos.
Silent at her side stood her husband, the fair and prideful Sindarin King of Eryn Galen. Twice now had Elrond born witness to Thranduil's grief, the first after his father and King had been unneedfully slain before the Black Gates of Mordor. Yet Oropher had not been alone in his demise that day and many were lost ere the Dark Lord's fall, foremost among them the mighty High King Gil-galad and the Numenorean exile Elendil, to whom Elrond could claim a measure of kinship.
But Oropher's son had not been assuaged by the loss of others and had led barely a third of his people back to their woodland realm with little but acrimony and a deep seated mistrust for all those who had fought in the Last Alliance. So their Silvan kindred had withdrawn, guided by their intransigent Sindarin King, closed their hearts to become hidden, isolated, rousing only to defend their borders and neither Imladris nor Lothlorien had been welcome or wanted within Thranduil's harried realm.
When at last the twice bereft King's gaze turned to Elrond, it was written with a dark and terrible anguish that was no less painful to behold for having witnessed it afore. "Late in the hour of our plight do you come, Elrond Peredhel," Thranduil spoke, with bitterness and recrimination, to his travel wearied guests.
At his side, Elrond felt Erestor bristle at the unjust accusation but placed his hand upon his trusted advisor's shoulder to counsel silence. Thranduil spoke out in grief, the words born of a frustrated rage that would seek any target, innocent or no, to quench its fire in another's blame.
But there was no fault to be laid at Imladris' feet. Late had they received the call for aid and its Lord had departed with all haste, pushing both Elf and beast close to their endurance in the charge over the Misty Mountains to the dark woods of the east. Had the mighty Elf Lord Glorfindel ridden with them they could not have travelled swifter. Yet in the end it had all been for naught. Had they arrived but a day sooner, had the King heeded his own healers and assented more quickly to request help from their estranged kin in the west...
Your pride, King Thranduil, is the more likely cause of this tragedy, Elrond thought, sourly, but knew his unkind reproach for a thwarted Healer's frustration.
"Where is her babe, Thranduil?" he demanded instead, seeing the signs upon the body that she had indeed birthed the child.
When the King did not respond to his plea, Elrond felt a glimmer of true fear and despair. Nay, do not let this be so, do not let both mother and child perish.
At last the King spoke, carelessly as if of a matter of no import. "You may find him with the ellith of my Hall."
Shocked though his expression did not reveal it, Elrond wondered how deep the King's grief ran that he might abandon a newly delivered elfling , knowing naught of its welfare. In the twilight of their time upon Middle Earth, an elven child was regarded as a wondrous gift to the dwindling Firstborn, ethereal creatures to be tirelessly, jealousy guarded from harm, more precious than the greatest of all Arda's treasures. Yet for Thranduil to hold this bounty with such light regard...
Seeing he would gain nothing more from the grieving Eldar, Elrond turned towards Eryn Galen's fabled stronghold, dug Dwarf deep into the mountainside that it might provide a refuge against such foul creatures that lurked still in the great wood. For though the istar Mithrandir had purged much of the South of the scourge of Sauron, the Dark Lord's evil had taken root in the forest and the children of Ungolient were ever watchful, ever spinning their deadly webs to ensnare unwitting Edhil.
It was such a hideous beast that had felled the pregnant queen, Elrond learned at last. While his company sought out much needed respite and refreshment from their travel, Elrond closely questioned the healers of Thranduil's hall as they led him to their infant prince. Close to her term, the Queen had taken to gentle walks to ease her discomfort and had whiled away the time lost in contemplation and joy of her impending labour. A true Silvan daughter, she had favoured the twilight hours the most, wandering beneath star and moon and such was her distraction that she had unthinkingly strayed from the elven path, away from her protectors.
The attack had been as unnaturally unpredictable as it had been swift. No spider had ever dared draw so close to the Elven realm since their dark master had fled Dol Guldur. Yet one creature had been so bold. Escaping sentries and patrols alike, it had skirted their more closely guarded paths and plunged recklessly deep into Elven territory. To those who had born witness to the horrifying attack, the creature had appeared driven, lethally deranged, striking the helpless Queen when flight would have secured its loathsome life, frenziedly seeking to pierce her tender flesh with poisonous fangs time and again as Elven arrows punctured its venomous sack. Even after the Queen's protectors had hewn its myriad legs from beneath it, as its foul and stinking guts had been spilled on the forest floor, still it strove for the fallen rin.
"It was her choice," Berilan the King's chief healer said at last, voice weary with sorrow and failure, as they came to stand outside the royal nursery. "To birth early afore the poison spread to her child. The resulting weakness allowed the venom to take hold of her. There was naught we could do..."
Of a sudden, the healer's breath caught and he covered his eyes with a hand, unable to continue with his tale of tragedy. Empathy surged through Imladris' Lord and Elrond regarded Berilan with naught but sympathy, placing his hand upon the healer's trembling arm as he spoke.
"Do not grieve yourself," he said kindly, "for this was beyond your skill. Take comfort in the life of the child and find peace that the Valar have granted us this much at least."
When Berilan at last took his leave, Elrond entered the nursery and there sought out the babe that had been birthed ere the death of its mother. He found him, as the King had promised, with the elf-maidens of the Hall. Sombre was their mood, bereft of their fair queen, yet though there was no laughter or joy, neither were there songs of grief here, mindful of the infant they tended.
Shedding his cloak, Elrond meticulously washed away the dust he had accrued on his journey though he longed swiftly to allay his anxieties over the child's wellbeing and set his heart at ease. When at last he was fit to receive the infant, he lifted the tiny bundle with tender consideration, infinitely gentle as he pulled away the silken swaddling to observe within the latest, and maphap the last, jewel of Eryn Galen.
Dark of hair and eye were the ellith present, as were all their Silvan kin, but the child was blue of eye and fair of hair, much like his Sindarin father and King in his regard. A striking elf he would become and not only among his woodland brethren, for there were few of his like left upon Middle Earth and even fewer now who dwelt within the Greenwood. Small too, even for a newly delivered elfling and Elrond judged he would never attain the full height and girth of his father, no doubt the result of his premature birthing.
At the disturbance of his cosy cocoon, the elfling roused, blinking drowsily up at the strange Edhel who held him.
"Mae govannen, Thranduilion," Elrond greeted him softly with a warm smile, all at once enchanted. It had been a millennia and more since his own children had been so small, so helpless, eagerly receiving the care that their adar was wont to lavish upon them.
The infant's sapphire eyes were piercing and tracked Elrond with the gaze of the hunter he would one day become, even as a tiny, stubborn hand found purchase in one of the Loremaster's braids. It would not loosen easily and the Elf Lord could not help but laugh aloud, surprising the subdued ellith.
"You will be a strong one, ernil nin," Elrond promised him, tracing one delicate, petal shaped ear, relieved the child bore no signs of distress or an unnatural lethargy. In a mortal child, an early birth would have been cause for concern, but even within the smallest of Edhel the immortal blood of the Firstborn powerfully flowed.
Gently untangling the child's clinging fingers, Elrond sang a lullaby his wife Celebrian had oft sung to their own and, soothed, the infant soon fell back into a dreamless slumber. The journey to Eryn Galen had proved to be in vain, yet not wholly fruitless. Elrond would not deny his heart was gladdened by the elfling's well-being and some joy after all would come out of the King's sorrow.
It was then a thought occurred to him and he turned to the maidens. "What name has the King bestowed upon his child that I might take back with me to Imladris, for the birth of an Elven prince will be of great cheer to all our people?"
At their sorrowful looks and shaking heads, Elrond's unease rose anew and he judged his healer's duty not yet fulfilled.
END OF CHAPTER ONE
Elvish Translations:
Hir nin – My Lord
Fea - Spirit
Peredhel – Half Elven
Mae govannen, Thranduilion – Well met, son of Thranduil
Ernil nin – My prince
Author: Milliecake
Category: General, Angst, Adventure
Rating: PG
Summary: A set of tales following the life of Legolas Greenleaf, from early birth, to his first adventure, through to the War of the Ring.
Disclaimer: Characters contained within this fic belong to Tolkien.
Author's Notes: A mixture of both movie verse and book, this could not have been written without the most excellent essay Legolas of Mirkwood: Prince Among Equals by Ellen Brundige, which intrigued me enough to write this tale.
******
Chapter One – Thranduilion
Eryn Galen, Third Age 2321...
The light of the dying day passed quickly into gloom and it seemed the last of the leaves had fallen for the year, though the trees appeared incongruously heavy and bent with their loss. A sharp and bitter wind cut serpentine through the autumnal wood, bearing on frost-tinged air the melancholy sound of Elvish lament.
In haste the company from Imladris had set out, yet now they slowed their beasts, confusion and despair written upon many a fair Elven face as hope abandoned them at last. Astride his steed, Elrond bowed his head, the song of grief that travailed so hauntingly through the stark and empty woodland burdening him with a bitter knowledge of what had come to pass. Too late, he grieved, and glanced to the telling boughs above. Even the trees mourn...
"Hir nin?" he heard Erestor, his trusted advisor query softly, reminding Imladris' Lord they had not the luxury of time to dwell upon heartache.
"We must go on." Elrond spoke purposefully, rallying his company's faltering spirits. "My skills may yet be in need, for were not there two involved in this unhappy business?"
With that he spurred his horse onwards once more, determined to lose no more time. If the passing of one was sorrowful, to lose both would be doubly grievous and he prayed the grace of the Valar would not allow such a tragedy to come to pass.
So it was with a swiftness their company descended upon a funereal scene in a clearing open to the stars, the light of Earendil fading as the adventurer of the heavens sailed further into the darkness beyond the world. Here the beeches seemed less touched by the season than many, here where even one not of Silvan blood could hope to find joy and rest and merriment amongst the trees.
But now the air was subdued and sorrowful, the woodland elves who would oft rejoice so readily in the twilight beneath bough and leaf, distraught in their grief. Dismounting, Elrond searched their faces, seeing a sharp and keening distress as they openly wept their sorrows, yet little of the confusion and despairing wonderment that assailed his own people.
Long has death been an ever constant shadow, Elrond thought, here where the Enemy made his stronghold. Here where there is no Ring of Power to protect them.
The weight of Vilya, the Ring of Sapphire, had never seemed so great a burden though it lay many leagues over meadow and mountain, safely ensconced in the valley Men called Rivendell. Elrond knew with keen foresight that were it not for the gift of Gil-galad, his father's light would shine less brightly upon his home and Imladris too would be lost to the shadow that even now plagued their woodland kin.
Making his way through the shrouded gathering, Erestor at his side, Elrond heard the Captain's breathy 'Ai Elbereth!' and had at last his fears confirmed. They had laid their queen upon a bed of living wood and there was a wreath around her dark brow, woven from the late seasoning wild flowers that grew at the foot of the Mountains South of the King's hall. But not even Melian herself could have healed a body so grievously sundered of its fea, for it was clear the spirit had left some time during the bright day for the Halls of Mandos.
Silent at her side stood her husband, the fair and prideful Sindarin King of Eryn Galen. Twice now had Elrond born witness to Thranduil's grief, the first after his father and King had been unneedfully slain before the Black Gates of Mordor. Yet Oropher had not been alone in his demise that day and many were lost ere the Dark Lord's fall, foremost among them the mighty High King Gil-galad and the Numenorean exile Elendil, to whom Elrond could claim a measure of kinship.
But Oropher's son had not been assuaged by the loss of others and had led barely a third of his people back to their woodland realm with little but acrimony and a deep seated mistrust for all those who had fought in the Last Alliance. So their Silvan kindred had withdrawn, guided by their intransigent Sindarin King, closed their hearts to become hidden, isolated, rousing only to defend their borders and neither Imladris nor Lothlorien had been welcome or wanted within Thranduil's harried realm.
When at last the twice bereft King's gaze turned to Elrond, it was written with a dark and terrible anguish that was no less painful to behold for having witnessed it afore. "Late in the hour of our plight do you come, Elrond Peredhel," Thranduil spoke, with bitterness and recrimination, to his travel wearied guests.
At his side, Elrond felt Erestor bristle at the unjust accusation but placed his hand upon his trusted advisor's shoulder to counsel silence. Thranduil spoke out in grief, the words born of a frustrated rage that would seek any target, innocent or no, to quench its fire in another's blame.
But there was no fault to be laid at Imladris' feet. Late had they received the call for aid and its Lord had departed with all haste, pushing both Elf and beast close to their endurance in the charge over the Misty Mountains to the dark woods of the east. Had the mighty Elf Lord Glorfindel ridden with them they could not have travelled swifter. Yet in the end it had all been for naught. Had they arrived but a day sooner, had the King heeded his own healers and assented more quickly to request help from their estranged kin in the west...
Your pride, King Thranduil, is the more likely cause of this tragedy, Elrond thought, sourly, but knew his unkind reproach for a thwarted Healer's frustration.
"Where is her babe, Thranduil?" he demanded instead, seeing the signs upon the body that she had indeed birthed the child.
When the King did not respond to his plea, Elrond felt a glimmer of true fear and despair. Nay, do not let this be so, do not let both mother and child perish.
At last the King spoke, carelessly as if of a matter of no import. "You may find him with the ellith of my Hall."
Shocked though his expression did not reveal it, Elrond wondered how deep the King's grief ran that he might abandon a newly delivered elfling , knowing naught of its welfare. In the twilight of their time upon Middle Earth, an elven child was regarded as a wondrous gift to the dwindling Firstborn, ethereal creatures to be tirelessly, jealousy guarded from harm, more precious than the greatest of all Arda's treasures. Yet for Thranduil to hold this bounty with such light regard...
Seeing he would gain nothing more from the grieving Eldar, Elrond turned towards Eryn Galen's fabled stronghold, dug Dwarf deep into the mountainside that it might provide a refuge against such foul creatures that lurked still in the great wood. For though the istar Mithrandir had purged much of the South of the scourge of Sauron, the Dark Lord's evil had taken root in the forest and the children of Ungolient were ever watchful, ever spinning their deadly webs to ensnare unwitting Edhil.
It was such a hideous beast that had felled the pregnant queen, Elrond learned at last. While his company sought out much needed respite and refreshment from their travel, Elrond closely questioned the healers of Thranduil's hall as they led him to their infant prince. Close to her term, the Queen had taken to gentle walks to ease her discomfort and had whiled away the time lost in contemplation and joy of her impending labour. A true Silvan daughter, she had favoured the twilight hours the most, wandering beneath star and moon and such was her distraction that she had unthinkingly strayed from the elven path, away from her protectors.
The attack had been as unnaturally unpredictable as it had been swift. No spider had ever dared draw so close to the Elven realm since their dark master had fled Dol Guldur. Yet one creature had been so bold. Escaping sentries and patrols alike, it had skirted their more closely guarded paths and plunged recklessly deep into Elven territory. To those who had born witness to the horrifying attack, the creature had appeared driven, lethally deranged, striking the helpless Queen when flight would have secured its loathsome life, frenziedly seeking to pierce her tender flesh with poisonous fangs time and again as Elven arrows punctured its venomous sack. Even after the Queen's protectors had hewn its myriad legs from beneath it, as its foul and stinking guts had been spilled on the forest floor, still it strove for the fallen rin.
"It was her choice," Berilan the King's chief healer said at last, voice weary with sorrow and failure, as they came to stand outside the royal nursery. "To birth early afore the poison spread to her child. The resulting weakness allowed the venom to take hold of her. There was naught we could do..."
Of a sudden, the healer's breath caught and he covered his eyes with a hand, unable to continue with his tale of tragedy. Empathy surged through Imladris' Lord and Elrond regarded Berilan with naught but sympathy, placing his hand upon the healer's trembling arm as he spoke.
"Do not grieve yourself," he said kindly, "for this was beyond your skill. Take comfort in the life of the child and find peace that the Valar have granted us this much at least."
When Berilan at last took his leave, Elrond entered the nursery and there sought out the babe that had been birthed ere the death of its mother. He found him, as the King had promised, with the elf-maidens of the Hall. Sombre was their mood, bereft of their fair queen, yet though there was no laughter or joy, neither were there songs of grief here, mindful of the infant they tended.
Shedding his cloak, Elrond meticulously washed away the dust he had accrued on his journey though he longed swiftly to allay his anxieties over the child's wellbeing and set his heart at ease. When at last he was fit to receive the infant, he lifted the tiny bundle with tender consideration, infinitely gentle as he pulled away the silken swaddling to observe within the latest, and maphap the last, jewel of Eryn Galen.
Dark of hair and eye were the ellith present, as were all their Silvan kin, but the child was blue of eye and fair of hair, much like his Sindarin father and King in his regard. A striking elf he would become and not only among his woodland brethren, for there were few of his like left upon Middle Earth and even fewer now who dwelt within the Greenwood. Small too, even for a newly delivered elfling and Elrond judged he would never attain the full height and girth of his father, no doubt the result of his premature birthing.
At the disturbance of his cosy cocoon, the elfling roused, blinking drowsily up at the strange Edhel who held him.
"Mae govannen, Thranduilion," Elrond greeted him softly with a warm smile, all at once enchanted. It had been a millennia and more since his own children had been so small, so helpless, eagerly receiving the care that their adar was wont to lavish upon them.
The infant's sapphire eyes were piercing and tracked Elrond with the gaze of the hunter he would one day become, even as a tiny, stubborn hand found purchase in one of the Loremaster's braids. It would not loosen easily and the Elf Lord could not help but laugh aloud, surprising the subdued ellith.
"You will be a strong one, ernil nin," Elrond promised him, tracing one delicate, petal shaped ear, relieved the child bore no signs of distress or an unnatural lethargy. In a mortal child, an early birth would have been cause for concern, but even within the smallest of Edhel the immortal blood of the Firstborn powerfully flowed.
Gently untangling the child's clinging fingers, Elrond sang a lullaby his wife Celebrian had oft sung to their own and, soothed, the infant soon fell back into a dreamless slumber. The journey to Eryn Galen had proved to be in vain, yet not wholly fruitless. Elrond would not deny his heart was gladdened by the elfling's well-being and some joy after all would come out of the King's sorrow.
It was then a thought occurred to him and he turned to the maidens. "What name has the King bestowed upon his child that I might take back with me to Imladris, for the birth of an Elven prince will be of great cheer to all our people?"
At their sorrowful looks and shaking heads, Elrond's unease rose anew and he judged his healer's duty not yet fulfilled.
END OF CHAPTER ONE
Elvish Translations:
Hir nin – My Lord
Fea - Spirit
Peredhel – Half Elven
Mae govannen, Thranduilion – Well met, son of Thranduil
Ernil nin – My prince