In response to the review from Katia0203:
First, thank you so much for reviewing! I really do love to hear what people think. And I understand, especially since the "Queen is dead" story line is so much of a trope. However, I didn't write it simply because it's a commonly-used-and almost canon in the fanfic world-concept, but because such a devastating event is a huge motivator. Children see their parents as invincible, much like they see themselves that way. So, for Legolas to lose not only his mother, but his brother (who isn't quite his age, but is young enough for it to be shocking and devastating), it shows him that the world as he knows it is no longer safe. He wants to do something about it, because absolutely no one is safe anymore. Everyone is at risk. And speaking from personal experience, you never really recover from losing your mother. I am so glad that my writing still reached you in a way that left you emotional, because that's every writer's dream. Whether it makes you happy or sad, or has you questioning "why" something is the way it is. So, THANK YOU so much for giving me something to say!
This is the final chapter, so I want to thank you all for sticking with me this long! I'm glad to be able to finally mark it complete and reach my goal of 30,000 words!
So, without further ado, here is the seventh and final chapter.
-FiTS
A frigid breeze tangled its gnarled fingers into Thallion's black braids, attempting to send shivers down his spine. It tugged and pulled at him. But no matter how hard it tried, nothing could break him out of the stillness that had taken over his body.
His Naneth, his ray of sunshine, could not be gone. Just like the loving, joyful young Faervere could not. It simply could not be so.
The glade was still, but the rest of the patrol moved, forcing themselves to take a step—to take action—for they knew their leaders were unable. Not yet.
Calaeron still sat, desperately clutching his mother as though he could force life back into her with nothing but his touch. The anguish written upon the blond elf's face was unlike anything Thallion had ever seen, and yet, he knew his own face was blank.
He could feel nothing, nothing but shock and disbelief.
Their patrol began gently gathering their fallen comrades, carefully carrying them over to the edge of the glade and laying them side by side. Their eyes were closed with great care, and their arms were crossed over their chests. Those whose weapons could be identified had them returned, so that they may be carried with them into Mandos.
Apseniel guarded Caranel with a fierce determination, allowing none to help him care for her. None dared to touch the Prince Faervere or Elvenqueen Lanthir.
After an eternity passed, Thallion finally moved. He was still right where he had collapsed, not more than a foot away from Faervere, and yet he thought he had been much further away.
Finally, he shivered as the wind's cruel hands gripped the back of his neck. He was once again completely aware of his surroundings. All sound returned to him, including the occasional pained breath escaping from Calaeron.
"Muindor," Thallion whispered, finding that he nearly could not speak around the block of ice in his throat.
He received nothing from the crown prince, and so he whispered once more.
"Muindor, please."
The Avar crawled forward, lacking the strength to stand and fearing he would crumple if he tried. He crawled until he was sat directly in front of the older elf, and he tried to ignore the now-empty body of his mother as she was draped across the elder prince's lap.
Still, Calaeron did not see him. He was almost looking directly through him.
Thallion placed a hand against Calaeron's cool neck, leaving it there and hoping the physical contact would bring his brother out of his anguished stupor.
"Please, Cal, I need you with me."
Agonized light blue eyes bore into his gray, tripling the intensity of his pain until he could feel hot tears stinging at his own. He could not break down now, he could not allow himself to fall apart when so many needed him.
"We must bring them home, Muindor." He squeezed gently. "We must lay them to rest."
At last, Calaeron nodded, relinquishing his hold on their mother and allowing Thallion to take her into his shaking arms.
Her body was too cold, the warmth and love having left it too soon. Thallion held her tight, rolling his body forward and placing all the strength he could muster into his legs—begging them to bear this precious weight for him.
He was able to carry her to the edge and placed her in a patch of wildflowers that resembled her eyes so closely that he had to hold back a sob.
Her dark blue eyes had already been closed, to his relief, and he arranged her arms as reverently as he could. Thallion then smoothed down her hair, forcing it to lay flat and plucking a bit of leaf out of the end of her braid.
When he had the strength to stand once more, his body wavered.
He was at last able to stand straight again while he watched Calaeron gather their younger brother and do the same.
Faervere was placed beside his mother, his sword at his side and his once-laughing eyes finally closed.
In a last moment of thought, Thallion knelt and took one of Faervere's cold hands, placing it palm-up beside him. Calaeron, sensing his brother's intention, did the same with their mother, turning it downward to match the young elf's.
They wove together the hands of the queen and her son, allowing them to rejoin in the Halls. They would enter side-by-side, never to part.
"May the Valar take them and hold them in eternal light," Thallion whispered.
The journey back to the palace lacked the urgency of their earlier flight.
It was a grim task, preparing the bodies of the fallen so that their families may look upon them without horror. They were cleaned and cared for by those who loved them, given back the dignity that had been stolen from them in their final battle.
Carriers were fashioned out of the limbs of fallen trees, as well as what was freely given by the trees who could still communicate to their woodland friends. They would bear them back to Mirkwood where they could properly be laid to rest.
Numbness returned to Thallion and no matter how much he wished for it, no further fond memories could be brought forth to ease him.
Even his steed seemed to drag her legs, not quite enthusiastic about traveling back to the kingdom.
'Waterfall gone…'
The tree who whispered the broken phrase shuddered, losing a few browned leaves as it shook. It brought Thallion out of his numbness for just a moment, spurring him into action.
"Please, mellon. I know your sorrow," he told the tree. In fact, he addressed them all. "But do not pass this grief forward to the palace. We must be the ones to bear it."
Mirkwood had gripped the royal family and tore from it the very foundation that made it whole. He did not want his family to be broken by the whispers of wounded trees. It would not do for word to travel ahead of the solemn party.
After all, it was their responsibility to bring such news. Their duty. And they would carry out the task themselves.
At first, the Elvenking said nothing, already sensing in his heart what he could read on his eldest sons' faces. He knew from the moment Legolas had given him Thallion's urgent message that it would be too late. He would lose his beloved Waterfall forever.
He nodded at his sons solemnly before leaving them and locking himself away in his study to mourn alone. He would join them later, when he could give them someone strong enough to lean on.
But it was Legolas who did not understand.
Thallion had found him in his gardens and knelt before the boy, taking both shoulders into his hands and looking into his wonderful young face, hating that he would soon shatter everything the elfling had ever known. He would take away the security that Legolas had cherished.
He would take it all.
The child had screamed, beating his tiny fists into Thallion's chest as angry tears coursed down his cheeks. No. It could not be. He screamed and shook and let out so much hurt, taking all of it out on his older brother's already battered form.
Thallion took the abuse, feeling the numbness spreading from the blows to his chest and bleeding into the rest of his body. Legolas could never hit hard enough to cause the same pain that nestled into the core of his very being. It would be best for the elfling to let it all out on someone who could handle it.
The child eventually collapsed into a mass of tears and hiccups, clutching Thallion's tunic and soaking it in his large, sad tears. The older elf found he could not cry, but simply held his brother tightly.
Once he had been able to convince Legolas to rest, he made his way to the home of Caranel's father, Telenir. As her captain, he wished to tell the older elf of his only child's demise. But as her friend, he wished he could have done more for her father. Thallion recalled that his youngest chief had lost her mother when she was an infant.
Telenir would be alone in this world.
The elf did not collapse at Thallion's world-shattering news. Like his daughter, he held strong in the face of loss. Caranel had been so strong for one so fragile and Thallion knew he would never forget her courage.
"Thank you, hir nin," Telenir gripped his forearms, squeezing them once before calmly retreating into his home to mourn. The elf had thanked Thallion. For what? He had not protected Telenir's daughter as he should have.
Later, when he was alone in his own chambers, Thallion finally allowed the numbness to subside. It was replaced by a rage so hot, so burning, that it consumed him entirely.
With an almost primal roar, Thallion grabbed the nearest object—a vase—and threw it across the room as furiously as he could. When it shattered into a million tiny pieces, his anger only intensified.
He fisted his hands into the cushions of a chair that rested in front of his fireplace, heaving the entire piece of furniture to the other side of the chamber where it cracked and fell in broken chunks.
Thallion screamed again and upended his bed frame, and knocked over an armoire, and broke apart a table. The more he destroyed, the more his anger grew until he could take it no longer.
He found himself putting his right fist through a large mirror, his hand slamming into the rock behind it as it sunk through the glass and the frame. At last, the physical pain overpowered his anguish and he fell into the scattered shards, his chest heaving and his sweaty hair falling into his eyes. It was now tangled and several of his braids had come loose.
He stared at the line of blood running down the side of his abused hand, the glass that was now embedded in it caught the light and reflected a macabre image.
He had broken more than the skin. Lanyarion would definitely call him a fool for this. But as he descended into sobs, he found that he did not care.
Scarlet blood dripped from delicate fingers, staining the taut bowstring with its crimson shade. Legolas spared only a moment to watch the blood seep from a ragged split in his flesh and drop to the leaves below. It did little to stop him. His upper back and shoulders were past the burning stage, now sending rippling waves of pain through his slender figure, though he could hardly feel it. He had pushed himself far past his body's endurance, but the pain was still not enough of a distraction against the agony in his heart.
Everything had built up within him, threatening to shatter him from the inside out. How could one person possibly handle so much? His thoughts and emotions had been swarming so violently within him that he could hardly contain them. Even now, his attention was consumed only by the grief-stricken hollow in his chest where his mother and brother should be.
After speaking with Thallion, the older elf had led him to his chambers and bade him to rest. At first, Legolas could only lay there while his mind flew in a thousand different directions. After time, his breathing began to intensify and his thoughts darkened until he felt like he would suffocate if he didn't let everything out.
He'd come to the training grounds in search of a release, and instead found only more anguish. He knew no one would stop him now, but everything reminded him of them and there was no escape. The palace was suffocating him with their presence, but the training grounds were hardly better. It had been only hours since that fateful moment when the royal family was shattered, but Legolas had already suffered an eternity's worth of grief.
Legolas had no clue how long he'd been drawing his bowstring. He stopped counting the number of arrows he'd released into the overburdened target at the end of the field long ago. He came to the conclusion that it no longer really mattered, anyway. After all, no amount of arrows could ever reach far enough to stop the pain.
He didn't want to feel anymore. Why couldn't it just stop?
He didn't feel the wet warmth of tears coursing their way down his reddened face, or the sweat that rolled down his temples and gathered in his long, pale blond hair. He had been at it for hours, yet he continued to drive himself deeper into the ground, feeling the prickles of anger at the edges of his pain. The sun had dipped below the horizon, casting gold shadows across his pale face, but he could no longer feel any warmth or comfort from the light.
How could this happen? How could the Valar take so much from them? Where was the justification in taking two people from a family that desperately needed them?
It was all so unjust!
His breaths were coming in short gasps, yet he wasn't aware of it—or that he was letting out small, keening whimpers with each shudder. Why wouldn't it stop? He just wanted to make it stop!
He drew another arrow from his quiver—he lost count of how many times he had refilled it—and growled in frustration as his hands refused to steady. Curse them, too.
The gaping, hollow void in his chest stole all attention from everything else. It sucked and dragged at his strength, sapping all semblance of joy from his soul. There was no bow, no smooth wood beneath his fingers and pleasant burning in his muscles, no satisfaction to the soft thunk of his arrows meeting their mark. There was nothing and no one.
This was how Thallion found him, so immersed in his archery that he didn't acknowledge his older brother's presence. Could the child even see him past the river of tears in his dark blue eyes? Thallion's breath left him in a shocked whoosh at the sight of the absolute anguish on Legolas' face. Never had he seen pain so deep anywhere else than in his own face reflected in the ruined mirror earlier that day. Nothing had been the same since the dreadful moment his entire world stopped spinning and he found himself scrambling to grab a hold of something for fear he would lose all control and be consumed.
He approached slowly, noting the eerie silence around them. The training grounds were empty, the few elves who had been training when Legolas entered had politely left their prince to his privacy, though one had gathered the courage to find Thallion and alert him of Legolas' destructive behavior.
The only sound that filled the air was the desperate sobbing of a grief-stricken young elf. Each cry chipped away deeper at Thallion's own heart, and he wanted so desperately to join the elfling in his sobbing. He again wanted nothing more than to shout and scream and throw things and destroy. But Legolas needed him more than he needed the satisfaction of watching something other than himself collapse.
The birds had ceased their song, knowing nothing in their cheerful repertoire to match the solemnity of the kingdom. The trees stopped their daily muddled chatter and drew deep into themselves, mourning in their own way. They would never fully recover from the pure agony that had settled over the forest. Something that terrible left a dreadful scar that wouldn't heal.
Nothing would ever be the same again. Greenwood the Great had made its final excruciating plunge into Mirkwood, and there was no turning back. Just like there was no turning back for Legolas. Whatever childhood remained had been stolen away by a group of ruthless orcs. The cares and worries that had plagued him just days ago had fled him, now seeming so insignificant in comparison.
The child would forever dedicate himself to protecting those less fortunate than him. Like his pure, beautiful mother whose love would have healed the entire forest if the Valar had allowed it. Or his fun-loving brother, who had only ever wanted to spread happiness and who's joyful laughter could light up even the darkest of rooms. Or the fiery-haired elleth who was fiercely loyal and never afraid of speaking her mind, no matter what anyone else said. Or the nine other elves whose stories had ended before their next chapter could ever be written.
He would eliminate all threats and drive the shadow as far back as it could possibly go. He would spend the rest of his life learning how to protect the free peoples of Middle Earth and how to stop all darkness that threatened them.
Standing just in front of his brother, Thallion could see the fine lines of pain etched deeply into Legolas' face. Though he may not be acknowledging his hurts, they were there for all others to see.
"Legolas, Penneth," he pleaded, hoping to distract him from his damaging actions. Thallion understood that Legolas wasn't paying attention to the serious damage he was doing to his hands, or how close he was to passing out from hyperventilating. But he couldn't bear to watch his youngest brother self-destruct in an attempt to escape.
He couldn't allow the child to fall apart so completely, as he had done. He needed to hold him together, for that would help keep himself together, too.
He stood in Legolas' view, close enough that he could have reached out and yanked the bow from his hands if he wanted to. It didn't matter. He could have been right in the elfling's face and Legolas wouldn't have noticed. It was like talking to a wall. Not a single sound reached the sharp ears of the elf in front of him.
Legolas was trembling violently before his older brother, hardly able to fully draw back his bow for the next arrow. The bolt quivered in his grasp, the blood on his fingers making it almost too slick to keep the projectile from falling out of his grip. The fingers of his right hand, acting as a guide for the arrow, were twitching so often that if he were even able to release it, the arrow was more likely to careen out of sight than to reach the target.
The target across from the younger elf was so filled with arrows that not a single bare space was left. It stood like a morbid pincushion, taunting Legolas as if to say, 'I can bear no more, and neither can you.'
"Please, Legolas."
Thallion reached an equally-trembling, bandaged hand toward the swaying youth, setting it on a quivering shoulder and hoping he could reach the anguished young elf inside. Legolas felt like he could come apart at the warm touch, and he froze for the briefest moment. Finally, tortured blue eyes lifted, swimming with tears and filled with shadow in a way only grief can cause.
"Thall," a weakened whisper broke from Legolas, as if tearing itself away from his very being. The moment their eyes met, Legolas collapsed into a heap in Thallion's arms, taking them both to the ground once the boy realized he couldn't even feel his legs. The bow and arrow fell uselessly as Thallion used all his remaining strength to catch him. Harsh, wracking sobs ripped through Legolas and he buried himself in his brother's chest. This wasn't the anger and disbelief from earlier, but a pure expression of agony and loss.
Thallion held Legolas tighter than he'd held anything in his life, clinging to his brother just as much as Legolas was clinging to him. Large hands smoothed down sweat-soaked hair and for the first time in many years, Thallion began rocking Legolas. He could not tell if it was for Legolas' benefit, or for his own.
"This is not the way," Thallion muttered into his younger brother's hair, continuing to rock gently back and forth, his tears falling into the elfling's blond locks. "This is not the way we deal with our grief, tithen las."
Thallion said nothing more, simply rocking them in time with the beating of his own heart. There was nothing else to say. And if Legolas had the strength to ask his brother what way he should be dealing with his grief, Thallion would have naught to answer.
For even he did not know.
This was more than the guiding flame Thallion envisioned. This was a raging inferno. And all of Middle Earth would burn with it.
