Chapter Six: Tree stories
Dedication: To the last Hobbits sequel that is both awesome and unnecessary.
Disclaimers see author's profile page.
It has been nearly seventy years, and he was still alive. Against all odds.
They were still alive.
It didn't feel right, somehow. Though he knew his little lead would do anything to keep him and his people safe. Somehow, that didn't feel right either.
He's a king, the last elven king in Middle Earth, eternal and ethereal, an evergreen tree that refused to fall no matter how much you burned it. Tall, strong and proud, a king that could go into battle with his people, a king that would stain his ivory blades black and blue, and would always come out raging victorious.
Single handed, and imperious.
There was time when he wasn't alone, when there was another figure beside him. Smiling, beaming, with a halo of golden sweat across his brow, happy for their victory, happy for his ada.
There was a time when he wasn't alone, when he still had someone to give his very life to. When he could still move freely, and love with all his heart.
His first son was born of the first day of spring, the thin of frost barely broken, the first leaf of green already born on the tip of bravery.
A small little leaf, green and delicate, with both the star's light and the sun's rays behind it to give it strength and power. The little leaf was brave, and fearless. So was his prince.
When he took the small bundle from Elrond's arms and held it in his own, he flet his heart expand, and his love multiply into immeasurable bounds. Before the dawn's first light and the crystal shade of the small emerald leaf, he received his son.
The first, and soon to be last, son of Mirkwood.
When he received his third son, Dol Guldur rose, and darkened the forest.
His leaf, with the brightest eyes that could rival the northern star, with the quickest fingers that could rival the fastest stags, took up arms. He was barely of age, an elfling really. When he should be in the kitchen, swapping sugar for salt, he was out in the woods, swapping arrow for blood.
The bow was elegantly carved, with the bow string made from his golden hair and the best silk of a hundred dead spiders. The arrows were dwarven inspired, crafted by the second prince's dead hands, the ember shafts flying golden in the cold twilight.
When he first saw his little leaf flying in the trees, shooting gold and delivering death from the skies, there was no pride in his heart, only shame, and sadness.
Shame, that he was not strong enough to protect the people of his woodland realm, that he was weak enough for the darkness to take hold, that he was not good enough to protect the ones he loved.
A hundred year had passed since the rise of the Necromancer. A hundred year since he had lost his sons to the spiders and the orcs and ground. A place elves of any kind should never set foot.
His first son was named Leaf, for the bright jewels that dangled the treasure trouves right off their doorsteps. His second son was called Light, for the brightest rays the sun had given, to each of them in turn. His third son was Free, the way he would often stretch his shoulder blades and stand on his tip toes to take flight.
Free was only ten when he sneaked off to the woods in chase of a fawn, Leaf found him beaming, the white entrails of the fawn spilled over his torn tunic, throat slit open from ear to ear, an orc pack picking apart Free's corpse for a little bite to eat.
Legolas was only two hundred, an elfling's elfling. He killed them all, with only a pair of singing daggers, and the groaning of the trees.
Light was just older when he was stolen from them, through blood and gore and arrow's wrath.
Mirkwood had lost two sons, he refused to lose anymore.
He's a king and his job is to secure his kingdom. He's a prince, his duty is to protect his home and everyone in it.
It was supposed to be three princes together. One brought light and hope, one gave flight and strength, the last protecting the trees and its kingdom for all eternity.
Mirkwood was callous, and real and did not know how to show affection and compassion before it was all too late. Before Legolas took up his bow and became all three sons of the woods.
If Mirkwood had persuaded him to stay strong, then maybe he would have lived. The king wasn't even there to give his son mercy to carry into death. No blood, no revenge, no sword was offered, just a messenger from Mordor that called himself Agarlas Prince.
How he detested the word prince.
Any news of his leaf disappeared shortly after the Battle of the Five Armies. After he scourged the frozen peaks of Ravenhill and destroyed the bats of Gundabad, with the dwarves of the mountain and the eagles of the skies protecting his back.
He left right after the battle, still too young to fully stomach the death and the blood and the screaming wounded left to die when the elves' magic and the man's herbs could not save them from the pain, nor the agony.
He was by his horse when Thranduil found him, his leaf armor swapped for a more simple folded tunic and vambraces. He did try to persuade him to stay, but stubbornness apparently run deep in the family, as was the eyes.
He was his son, his leaf his hope his light his wings. the only legacy left to him by his beloved queen. A mere child in the face of time. A star so young to see blood and be calm and open about it.
His eyes were misty, the iron wood king was crying, letting his long imprisoned tears flow out of its confines, staining but not taking hold of his sky blue armor and singing blades.
He opened his mouth to make him stay, but all he could do was to wipe the long dried blood from his prince's cheeks. The blood of his leaf and the blood of others. He has his duties to the future king of Gondor, and as a father and a king, he has to let him go.
His leaf buried himself into his father's arms, and he himself placed his gloved hand around his son's head and pulled him deeper into himself, as if to shield his elfling from all the horror he already faced and would not likely forget.
When they came apart, there were stars in his blue eyes. The king's eyes were always frost covered, to keep the burning flames from escaping. The prince's eyes were only recently frozen, not soon enough to keep it from melting.
"I have a gift for you," he said. And from his own armor he pulled out something valar-made, meant for a beloved morning star.
It was the pendant leaf of morrow night, small and utterly beautiful, something that King Thranduil would've liked to be given to his son when he's at his of-age ceremony of one thousand years in front of the whole world, aplauding ferociously to their star and their prince that could shoot down the moon and no one would miss it because he was night beauty enough for the world.
It was a small thing of great value, hanging from a chain of silver and blue, pristine and pure. Farther than the moon, higher than the sun.
The pendant itself was small, eight leaves pieced together to from an arrow, each as thin as glass and light as a feather. Two lines of mitheril extended up and outwards, circling the arrow before knotting into a small ring of bright stars.
"It'll protect you," he whispered as he carefully slipped the chain around Leaf's neck, avoiding the weapons strapped to his smiled slightly, curving his lips upwards into a barely noticeable arc, so different from the smirks adornign his lips just an hour ago.
He'll need it, the conscience inside himself whispered.
There's an evil out there that could not be destroyed by the mere presence of a man, not alone, the burden of the chosen one was heavy on everyone, especially on a rider with a hidden name.
"Be safe, Le'las," he said when he grasped the reins of the prince's horse for a last word and a silent goodbye. "And remember to come home," he said, smiled as his son promised and sped off, never looking back.
Thranduil taught each of his sons to honor their promises and value the cost.
Only six months after the Battle of the Five Armies, when everyone's rebuilding the Lonely Mountain, Dale and their own lives, did the ill news came.
Prince Legolas Greenleaf Thranduilion, was missing.
By missing, the messenger meant no where to be found and is either dead or captured by orcs.
When he forced himself to move, he found that he couldn't breathe. All the air was sucked from his lungs in a great swoop. He barely managed to keep himself upright and dismiss the ranger to whence he came.
Why?
He locked himself inside his chambers afterwards, hiding from the world like a child from thunder, like a coward from battle. Was he so wretched that the valar would punish him like this? By taking away his precious sons one by one until he is but a moving shell and his kingdom naught but dust?
Was he so stubborn and unforgiving that he would warrant such a hefty punishment?
He knew perfectly well what would happen if you get captured by orcs. They'll either torture you beyond recognition, or mold and change you until you are nothing you once were, just filth and scum and shadows.
He should know, Legolas should know the best of all. Was he not the one that chased a stray spider out into the woods, and came upon the stung up corpse of his beloved mother?
Life has been hard on then all.
But maybe Legolas could live, could be free, could continue on. He has seen and experienced great and worst things at such a young age, and he always came out with flying colors. Crimson and green.
Maybe there was hope, after all.
Thranduil would cling to every last strand of those delicate hope with both fists until they shatter in front of his face by the dark army of Mordor. Until then, he would not lose hope.
Hope, that a miracle would be gifted to King Thranduil of Mirkwood, that his son was safe.
Hope, that a blessing would be given to Prince Agarlas of Mordor, that he could go home.
Fate answered yes, and Sauron could care less.
It was another six months after the disappearance the Greenleaf of the Woods that Thranduil saw the Bloodleaf of Mordor.
It was a patrol lead by Thranduil himself, a request from the White Council to access the remains of Dol Guldur. HE was with his royal guard, with half of Imladris' army behind him when he made for the abandoned fortress.
Not quite abandoned, as a matter of fact.
When he reached the submit, the highest point of the fortress was when he saw it. The pulsing shadows and the midnight elf.
He was the only one unscathed, his guard slowed and tangled by the trees in the scorched courtyard, limbs filled with thorns and spikes that had wounded many spiders and elves alike, controled by the one on top of that fortress. Not the one he was seeing, just the one he was looking.
It was an elf, young but dangerous. Thranduil did not hesitate, his sword sang as it was drawn from its sheath.
The elf was different, different than anything Thranduil had ever seen before. The shadows pulsed and snarled and cloaked around him. Gauntlets with mythical violets runes around his arms, tunics tucked inside metal shoulder plates, lithe armor for a monster.
He was almost like an elfling, if you can ignore the blackness blanketing him, in and out.
A thick metal mask kept his waist length midnight hair from falling into his face and his eyes from being seen, just barely allowing his pointy ears to show. The great cloak was draped across his shoulders, blood and shadows stemmed from the moving fabric, and the darkness bowed low to it.
The elven king did not ask his name, nor did he reveal his own. An elf with such control of the darkness could not be trusted to not attack once a sound was spoken. Thranduil did not think the strange one would reveal his origins and master before the king.
He pursed his thin lips when he saw the drawn sword in Thranduil's gloved hand. Arrows were drawn and set all around him. From the warriors of both colony and kingdom of the Eldar.
With a snarl the shadows of his cloak spat the objects to Thranduil's feet.
The arrows in the quiver darkened by orc blood; the knife blades shattered, the hilt covered with grime; the long bow broken in half, the silvery-red of elven blood painting it copper and brown. The cloak was shredded, mud, grime, dirt and blood on the once blanketing forest green.
A cloak with a broken emerald clasp, seen only on a prince. The bows and arrows of intricate carvings, made by the finest smiths of Imladris that crafted Isildur's sword a long time ago, fit for a warrior.
That was all of Legolas' belongings, things he trusted to protect his life. All broken and shattered, just like his hope, just like him.
The father fell to his knees, and almost allowed his hope to slowly drift away.
"He's safe," the shadowed elf said quietly, his voice carrying itself easily over the desolate plains of Dol Guldur, the shadow itself magnifying the quiet tune.
Thranduil snapped his golden head up from where it was bowed to the stone, hesitant to rekindle his hope. A messenger of Mordor with the things of a morning prince, bloodied and torn, would never try to help him up.
"Your star prince is safe and well," he repeated in a little sing song voice, almost giddy, deep and melodic.
He shook his head slightly, the shadows bubbled and raged one last time before retreating into immovable things that could harm no one and no thing. "He sends his regards, the prince and my lord." His lips pulled into a soft smile, and the darkness shivered.
The elven king glared harshly at the shadows, his twin swords drawn and ringing, sharp and sinigng, ready for blood and death.
The shadow elf laughed, his thin lips curling into a smirk so like Thranduil's own creation. "You're not strong enough, Elvenking," he sang along side the darkness around him, "You'll never be strong enough to take your son away from us." The elf snarled, his shadows hissing along with him.
With a swift motion of his arm he had the shadows gathered around him, with a flick of his finger the darkness exploded outwards, knocking weapons askew and elves off their feet.
There was no father that stood when the shadows dissipated and found the elf no where to be seen, just a king. A king that has lost too much. A king that cannot lose anymore. A king willing to do everything in his power to take back what was rightfully his.
"We shall see," he screamed, "I will get him back, even if I have to tore up Mordor inch by inch to find him." He roared for everyone to hear.
Thranduil Orophrion was never week, just not strong enough to do what's needed for them all.
Imladris sent its last warriors to Rohan, to take part in the greatest siege in the history of Middle Earth. Lothlorien sent its galadriem to the white capital of Gondor, for the battle before its door step that could rival the five armies of Erebor.
Mirkwood perhaps marched for the most selfish of reasons. The dark amber armor of the woodland sprites was seen before the black gates of Mordor, before orcs and goblins and trolls and Nazguls five times the number of the siege in Helm's Deep and Minas Tirith.
Thranduil marched for a selfish purpose, a selfish end. But was it not the means that matter before the end results?
Prince and Son.
A/N: I finally downloaded The Battle of The Five Armies so I can finally marvel at the amount of CGI and awesomeness in the film. Thranduil too, because he is probably one of those characters that you can spin into every possible angle. And so so fun to write.
Thranduilion - Son of Thranduil. Elves don't have surnames that they follow, so parents use that when they children get into trouble and have to be grounded. I think. Or its just a respectful term they use, or something.
Question: How do you say I want to bash a brick to your face, nicely? Answer: One wishes to acquaint your facial features with a fundamental item used in building walls... repeatedly.
I still deserve it。
Can people please review so I know there's actual people reading this and not some hydroponic robots from outer space that wanted to get to know Earth better so they can destroy us?
The actual Mirkwood is next. Promise.