A/N: I am so very sorry about the massive delay for this... it took me three weeks to write this chapter, and upon the day that I was finally ready to post it, my computer ate it and spat it back out in gobble-de-goob at me! I was soooo annoyed and vaguely distraught... so apologies for that. I sort of lost all motivation to repeat the mistake, if you follow me.... but I am back now!
Hopefully you'll forgive me and give me a review to let me know what you think of this chapter: at the minute I reckon it was far more trouble than it's worth, but let me know you own personal views!
A few of you have commented that the welcome of the twins was 'interesting' - can I just say that it was entirely meant to be like that... I wanted the twins to appear as foreign and strange to you folks as it does to the hobbits and Gimli, and their behaviour towards Legolas just as odd. So it was, I assure you, intentional!
Cheers and sorry again!
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The Throne Room was built almost entirely for intimidation. It was beautiful, of course... but the general feel of the room did have the tendency of leaving even the most stout-hearted visitor trembling.
Legolas stepped forward and then stopped, and the fellowship along with his brothers filed in behind. The mortals craned their necks to look about the place, it's light dancing in the reflections of their awed eyes.
The large hall seemed to have been scooped from the living stone of the mountain - the rock of the high ceiling glittered with salt crystals, and the walls were shot through with silvery threads of mithril, running rivulets of light throughout. Massive pillars lined both sides of the hall, and they looked as though - throughout the ages of the world they'd seen - many hands had smoothed over and shaped them, rather than been carved by conventional tools. They were decidedly eerie-looking: thinner in the middle than at the top or bottom, twisted as though gnarled willow trunks, and their shimmering-grey hue glinting in the flickering torchlight - and did nothing to ease the company.
These strange pillars led up to two platforms, made from the same materials as the narrow doors to the hall. These structures were basked in a haze of ethereal light, as though a spell had been woven to keep the inhabitants of the grand room forever timeless and beautiful, frozen in a static state of wary observation. Of course, this haze was merely the light naturally surrounding the glorious beings, and the mortals had never seen this glow - which all elves exerted - so strong and concentrated as it was over these platforms. Upon the lower platform there were nine - rather grand looking - oaken chairs placed all in a sturdy line from left to right, four of which were vacant.
And upon the top platform there was a mighty throne, carved from a dark and dense wood. It held a flaming golden light which the mortals could barely look at, and so they were unable to see clearly the figure from which it was emitted... beside this throne sat a delicately-upholstered chair made from something like ash. This pretty chair was completely empty, but in a different way than the four lower chairs: it seemed to be completely missing something, and none of the golden light about the platforms could fall there, as if the haze simply shied away from illuminating the chair, and could not fall there.
Standing just behind and to the left of this lonely chair there stood two tall elves. The first (and the taller) was a ghostly creature, despite being both strong and broad, with long tendrils of silvery-white hair, skin so pale it looked white and translucent, and utterly colourless eyes. Within these white, gem-like orbs there shone the light of the Undying Lands, captured at some enchanted time of this being's long life and never relinquished.
This was clearly an ancient warrior of past ages, who had seen far too many battles and, though still ageless and prime, was swiftly tiring of this world and longed to return to those same distant white shores. The hints of recent fighting and struggle that marred the forest of Mirkwood outside the Palace gates had also marked this fair elf's fine features, and darkly-healing cuts painted deep red slashes across one of his cheeks, shocking in contrast to his unblemished skin.
This was Selmanias, Captain of the Guards... but he was so much more than that to the Royal Family, and Legolas' heart leapt in joy to see the elf he regarded much as an uncle.
The shorter of the two was an elf all-but bent with the years he had observed as if he had been a constant force in Middle-earth from the very first Awakening. His eyes shone with a wisdom that proved he had seen entire races flourish and then wither, as if he had simply stood back and watched Time roll on through it's course. His simple yet smart robes shrouded a vessel of great power and light... This elf seemed to be made from the very earth itself, and the unnatural age-lines marring his features looked to have been carved in the stone of his face... it was a queer thing for an elf to show age, almost impossible, but Galion - for that was his name - had seen so many Ages, had experienced so many years, that time weighed heavy upon him now: it touched his face, frosted his hair and misted his eyes... he looked like a fifty year old human would look, only far more beautiful and magical.
Others fondly nicknamed him 'Old Galion' and 'The Grandfather'... there never was an understatement so great. Galion the Butler was the eldest of all the elves in the Woodland Realm: he had earned the right to be called an 'Old Villain'.
Aragorn saw him and smiled: how many times had he and Legolas been shooed away from whatever mischief they had been making by the surprisingly nimble-footed elf? How many times had they had their ears boxed by the old devil? How many times had they proclaimed it utterly unfair that Thranduil had given the elder elf his personal leave to use whatever force necessary with his children, allowing Galion to warm their hides frequently? How many times had they been embraced in relief by the old elf after times of worry or accidents? Aragorn's heart warmed greatly to again see such a massive figure in his childhood.
Legolas stepped awkwardly forward, heart falling back down into his chest again with a thud, and he began his slow, painful walk down through the hall to the platforms and his father. He could not see the expression on the King's face, blinded as he was by the golden light that shone from Thranduil, and his breathing hitched when he thought about what he would find there when he could. He knew this dazzling display of magic and power from the Woodland ruler was mostly for show (mainly to intimidate the mortals), but he himself could not help being influenced by it, as he always had been.
Gimli thought his friend looked - at that precise moment - like a petty criminal, sentanced to death and being drawn to the gallows. His sharp black eyes caught the way the elf's slender hand periodically tightened and unclenched the shaft of his bow, clutching it until the knuckles whitened. He wondered at the severity of the King's parenthood if he instilled such terror into one so stout-hearted as the Greenleaf. The dwarf looked to the lower platform, to try and urge the figures into helping his seemingly-doomed friend, but found no hint of life there. He frowned, bushy red brows drawing down, as he tried to discern whether the five beings were simply marbled statues dressed up in Royal finery.
Indeed, Sam was thinking much the same thing... but he found these 'statues' to be possibly the most enchanting things he'd ever seen, and he simply couldn't tear his eyes away from them, not even in his worry of Legolas' plight. The figures grabbed his attention and held it in an irreversibly tight grasp, showing no sign of releasing it any time soon.
This was understandable, and the poor hobbit gardener was not the first to feel so: the Royal Children were mesmerising in both appearance and behaviour - almost all were already betrothed or, at least, loved by many suitors - not only did they look beautiful and act with such potent, inherited power, but they held great wisdom and knowledge of all things, ensuring they were apt leaders of their father's realm, and deserved to be honoured.
Not only that, but they had wit enough to entertain an entire hall-full of feasters. If they wished to, that is.
Sam looked at the figure sat upon the far right of the platform. This male elf had large green-grey eyes and long dark hair which fell thickly onto his strong chest from the ornate silver circlet upon his severe brow. His powerful face seemed to be a complex merge of both Legolas and Fienngil's, holding a conflicting strength and softness that demanded respect and humility - he was tall and slender, but obviously held a strength few, even elves, posessed. A smile was dancing in his bright eyes, and a cleft in his pale cheeks spoke of a small grin as his attention followed Legolas upon his slow approach. His fine clothes and intense nobility did not, surprisingly, frighten Sam, and he found himself liking the look of this strange elf, for reasons his mind knew naught of, but his heart did. This elf reminded him of Legolas.
He was unaware that this fine young elf was, in fact, Tusinduil Grownoak, the Crown Prince of the Woodland Realm, and was a scholar capable, even then, of ruling the Kingdom just as he ruled as the head of his own young family of wife and two elflings.
Sitting to the left of this being, in the next chair was a handsome elf-maiden, with a straight-backed posture and formidable features: hawk-sharp were her deep grey-blue eyes, and her knife-like cheekbones, snow-pale skin and slight frown gave her a harsh look. A queen, she looked - stately and magnificent, with her dark head held high and her proud shoulders thrown back. Niandias had been like a mother to her siblings when their own was taken away from them, and though she possessed the kind, caring nature and patient temperament of the late Queen, Whiteblossoms' appearance was more that of her father's... quite unnerving.
There was then a gap of three empty seats before Sam's eyes beheld one of the most beautiful creatures Middle-earth had to offer... on a level with his Rosie, just about, he reckoned. A beacon of sunlight this maiden was, and so aptly named: Esladiya Sunbeam. Her wild curls were spun threads of the Sun itself, and they fell at length to frame a pretty, heart-shaped face. Wide eyes, light grey in hue, shone with eternal happiness, and her smooth rosebud lips were drawn into a sweet smile at seeing her youngest brother's return. A force of goodness she was, intent and pure, and all who knew her loved her soft nature and gentle way.
Sam heard a small, contented sigh from somewhere beside him, and turned to see that Pippin had a dreamy look about his face and his orb-like eyes were filled with the golden light this maiden gave off... he looked much like Gimli had when the dwarf had met the Lady Galadriel. The hobbit gardener stifled a snigger, thinking he really couldn't blame Pip: this shimmering grey-clad elf-lady was so utterly beautiful, she threatened to steal one's breath.
Beside this fair maiden was another male, slender and delicate, and with a face as glorious and as pale as the moon's own countenance. Ithilmir had been named after the light that shone in his grey, gem-like eyes, capturing the magnificence of the clear night's sky all elves loved. A quiet, reserved look he had about him... the physical representation of Legolas' own, more understated moods. But he shone with all the strength of a flaming star, giving off a muted passion and light that few dared defy, but now he smiled upon seeing his brother approach.
The next chair, the second-last one upon the lower platform, held another elf-lady, but this maiden was unlike her closest sister - she was a dark, intense beauty, with massive dark-blue eyes - framed by black lashes - and masses of brown curls that fell down past her waist, partially clasped in golden clips. Her eyes were sharp, but she looked as though her tongue was sharper... her tempestuous countenance was impassive and utterly unreadable as she watched Legolas. Aricesla Evensun could be as awkward and as misunderstood as her father, when the mood took her... but when she fancied it, she could be as sweet as honey. At that moment she was undecided.
These were the names and faces of Legolas' most loved - his family... he knew in his heart that whatever arguments and grievences they might have had before he left his home, they would forgive him and welcome him back home. Thranduil, upon the other hand, was an entirely different matter. Which was why the elven archer didn't really look at his siblings, eyes fixed as they were upon the King.
As the time since the company's arrival in the Great Hall had lengthened, the golden haze around the main throne had drifted, so that the owner of the magical aura was now able to be seen.
In one hand, a carven staff of oak was held as if it were the very meter of justice, and the other hand, firmly grasping the arm of the throne, looked - even as it lay idle - to have strength enough to squeeze an enemy's windpipe till his lungs were no longer able to draw breath... with frighteningly little effort. Straight and thick shining-golden hair tumbled down from a crown of warm metal, wreathed in the likeness of summer leaves, and fell upon proud, broad shoulders clad in ornate finery. His skin seemed to radiate a golden glow, exuding nobility and a great worthiness few posessed. Threatening blue eyes, as dark as glowing coals and as hard as diamonds, glared out of a handsome, powerful face and shone with a determination and spirit only attained through intense training and infinate personal strength. This gaze was like lightening bolts of pure energy, and it hit the entire company hard as it swept over them.
This was Thranduil Wiseoak... this gaze was renowned: it was one very few people could either escape or soften. The King was good - a little short-sighted at times, too intent upon protecting his own people and Woodland Realm to be overly inclined to help his other kin. But nevertheless he was a creature naturally bred with a great dignity and noble pride (though some might venture to call it arrogance), and he was one of the fiercest elves the histories of Middle-earth had ever sung about... whether it was protecting his loved family and friends, defending his Kingdom, debating lore or even just playing a round of archery, Thranduil always fiercely gave the matter at hand his entire attention and heart. His very feeling was that of a mighty King and hero, and he radiated power and charisma, and the promise of merciless wrath.
Legolas could barely breathe, so nervous he was around his father... he loved him, and the King had always made it clear (in his own way) that he loved his youngest son as well, but Legolas had neglected his duties as a Captain, had deliberately disobeyed his King, and had worried his father... all actions punishable by a spell in the Mirkwood dungeons.
He came at last to the two platforms, and respectfully bowed before them, falling to one knee and lowering his golden head till his fair hair lightly swept the great marble floor. There was a silence in which Legolas held his breath and Aragorn tried hard not to fidget - his human reflex of twitching during tense silences had an amazing ability to send Thranduil into a temper, as he had learned hard from experience. The three other princes accompanying the mortals stepped forward and formed a line respectfully behind their youngest brother, also bowing their heads.
"Tiro me look up, Legolas," the booming voice echoed from the high ceilings and carved walls. Thranduil had spoken.
The young prince drew in a deep breath and obeyed, his eyes dragging slowly up from the ornate floor, across the platforms and up... until they latched onto the King's own.
A storm of feelings was raging in the deep, age-old orbs eyes of Thranduil... anger, relief, amusement, betrayal, annoyance... all warred with one another in a desperate attempt to win and come up shining along with the starlight in the elven orbs. This storm travelled across the hall, and all present held their breaths to see which one would succeed.
It was a combination. Relief, reproach and amusement swirled around and within one another, and the King's awful gaze softened most unexpectedly. He tapped his fingers lightly upon the wooden arm of his throne as though impatient and, golden head tilted to one side and voice goading, said, "You have returned then, have you?"
Legolas, who was still uncertain as to how well he had read the situation, decided to play it straight, "Aye, my lord."
Thranduil sniffed, gaze shifting to the nails on his tapping fingers, "All present and correct? Ten fingers, ten toes and two pointed ears?"
The prince stifled an un-royal snort, and nodded quietly.
The King smiled warmly for only a second, softly whispering, "Good." Then his harsh gaze snapped up to the eldest of the twin princes, "Arianduil." The dark-headed elf stepped forward, his game still slung over his strong shoulders. Thranduil nodded with commendation, "As ever, your deft hunting skills have impressed us once again."
This comment drew an exclamation of disbelief from one of the line of princes, and all turned to see the other twin, Andariun, move forward swiftly, a hand raised in objection. He blurted out, "If I may be so bold, my King, might I inform you that I was also a factor in the success of this hunt... had I not sacrificed my own personal safety and gone bravely into the darkest depths of the forest to flush out the game, my dearest brother would not have had anything to shoot!"
Andariun seemed to realise this glory-seeking might not have been the best course of action for him at that precise moment - his twin's dark head whipped round and Arianduil glared at him, eyes flashing a warning as well as a threat - and so lowered both his arm and his head.
The wonderfully deep sound of Gandalf chuckling permeated the hall, and Merry looked back to see the wizard sharing a fond glance with Aragorn, who also smiled warmly. The hobbit looked up at the Elven King, expecting to see some sort of rebuke upon his fair face, but was met with an equally bright smile... and Merry thought he spied one or two of the younger elves on the lower platform shaking their beautiful heads and rolling their eyes in mock annoyance.
Thranduil was never one to be outdone, though. "None of that shall matter, my princes, if you do not get your winnings along to the cook as soon as possible... Belphadon will have both your heads if your tardiness stops him from being prepared for the great feast we are to have tonight, you know what he's like. And mark my words, I shall not stop him," the King said this sternly, and ignored the fact the elder elf, Galion, had to stride out of the room immediately in order to make preparations for such an impromptu decision. Thranduil couldn't have cared less: Legolas had returned to him.
The matter of why the young prince had been away from him in the first place was another matter. One that would most definately be settled at a later date.
Shaking himself out of such unpleasant thoughts, Thranduil looked up to see three of his sons bow and leave the hall, and this motion dragged his eyes towards the contingent of mortals that seemed to have suddenly invaded his palace... the four little ones seemed harmless enough - standing nervously and doing their best to keep his eye, though none could resist looking away - and though Aragorn and Gandalf weren't harmless by any means, both were welcome in his Kingdom at any time. Thranduil couldn't help thinking, however, that one of this band of mortals looked distinctively like a dwarf... though his brow seemed proud and he carried himself in a way that suggested he was one of noble birth, the King ignored these facts and saw Gimli exactly how he wanted to see him: unworthy.
"Legolas, you know I don't take pleasure in ignorance... come now, you know your manners, and yet I know naught of these mortals," he said briskly, motioning with precision towards the group.
Before Legolas could react, Aragorn stepped forward, strong chest rising as he inhaled, ready to launch into a detailed introduction of himself. But Thranduil cut him back swiftly, "Step down, Estel... if you think any of the population of Mirkwood have not heard your name, you are very much mistaken, idiot boy." To warm the cold harshness of his tone, the Elven King allowed himself a small smile as a sequel to these words and Aragorn, chastised, stepped backwards with one of his own, hidden behind his scratchy beard. He looked, at that moment, rather like the dark-curled, whirlwind of a Man-child that had first graced the halls of Eryn Lasgalen, decades ago, instead of the proud King and equal he now was.
Gandalf gently clapped the human on the back with a large hand, chortling. "Aye, to be back in Mirkwood..." was all he, rather cryptically, said.
A/N: There you go, all rather full of descriptions, that one... there will be another chapter where you see Thranduil's reaction to each of the mortals. Hope this suffices for now... hope you liked it, let me know! Also, very sorry about delay!