Disclaimers: I don't own any of the characters or settings from Lord of the Rings or Xena the Warrior Princess
Chapter XIII: Farewell to the Greenwood
Woodland Realm, 2940 TA, December 21
On the eve of December 21st, a hush settled over the Halls of the ElvenKing. The Mid-Winter fest, an unyielding tradition, loomed, painting the halls with a blend of bittersweet nostalgia and determination. For Thranduil, this day held more significance than the mere transition of seasons; it marked the anniversary of his bond with the Queen, an extraordinary day wrapped in layers of both joy and sorrow.
This year, however, the festive air wove through the mourning hearts, for just weeks ago, they had stood amidst the brutal throes of war. The echoes of the battle of the five armies reverberated, leaving behind the haunting whispers of loss and sacrifice. Yet, amidst their grief, the elves, resolute in their traditions, prepared to bid farewell to Legolas, an occasion destined to be far from a merry revelry.
The Halls, usually adorned with opulent banners and vibrant tapestries, now wore a different attire—a delicate blend of somber grace and quiet elegance. Elven artisans meticulously crafted wreaths of evergreen and silver holly, weaving tales of resilience and remembrance into each intricate design. Fragrant candles, flickering in myriad hues, cast a gentle glow upon the sorrow-tinged festivities, a silent tribute to the fallen.
Despite the weight of their grief, partook in the preparations. They moved with graceful determination, adorning the halls with painstaking precision. Some delicately arranged crystalline icicles and shimmering snowflakes, evoking the pristine beauty of winter, while others hung strings of delicate, ethereal starlight, draping them from bough to bough.
In the heart of the halls, a grand tapestry unfolded—a testament to Elven craftsmanship and artistry. Depicting the tales of old and the valor of those lost in battle, it served as a silent memorial, a poignant reminder of sacrifice and unity.
Amidst the melancholic atmosphere, there lingered an unspoken reverence—a collective determination to honor their traditions, to celebrate the passing of winter despite the raw wounds of war. Each elf, from the youngest to the oldest, lent their talents and fervor, ensuring that the Mid-Winter fest would be a testament to resilience, a symphony of remembrance for those who had departed.
And so, within the subdued beauty of the Halls of the Elvenking, preparations continued, each meticulous detail bearing witness to the elves' unwavering spirit and unyielding unity.
Within the confines of his chamber, Legolas stood amidst carefully selected garments, meticulously laid out in silent anticipation of his imminent departure. His belongings, neatly organized and packed for days, stood as a testament to his readiness to embark on a journey that fate had woven into his destiny long before.
In an unexpected turn, his father, the ElvenKing, had surprisingly acquiesced to his plea, endorsing Legolas's decision to sever his ties with Mirkwood. Uncharacteristically supportive, Thranduil not only agreed to his departure but also offered guidance on his destination—a gesture that would have swiftly allowed a woodland elf to venture forth.
Yet, the crown upon his head bound him, confining him within the rigid constraints of royal protocol. Even as he yearned to tread the path he had chosen, the honor and duty bestowed upon him as the prince tethered him to Mirkwood's confines. Thranduil, understanding his son's resolve, subtly urged compliance with the traditions that dictated the departure of a prince, prolonging the inevitable departure and affording precious moments of fleeting father-son communion.
Though the King would not have barred his exit, the weight of expectation, the unspoken yet palpable filial obligation, compelled Legolas to linger within the halls a little longer. It was a bittersweet interlude, where duty, respect, and familial affection intertwined, elongating the passage of time before the inevitable separation.
And so, despite the readiness and resolve that enveloped him, Legolas found himself in a state of limbo—a juxtaposition of readiness and reluctance, duty and desire, all woven intricately into the fabric of his impending departure from the bosom of his kingdom and the embrace of his father.
Within the echoing chambers of his mind, Legolas grappled with a turbulent mix of emotions, anticipation interwoven with reluctance, as the inevitable call to partake in the festivity loomed over him. Celebrations, a customary affair in the Halls of Thranduil, beckoned him forth, compelling his presence as the prince.
However, a subtle aversion had always nestled within him—a discomfort that surfaced whenever the grandeur of prolonged revelry demanded his role as the prince. This time, though, his apprehension ran deeper, woven into the very fabric of his being, colored by the shadow of imminent farewells and the weight of misconceptions that would shroud his departure.
The absence of Tauriel, his steadfast companion, was a chasm that yawned wide within his heart. Her choice to wander the wilds, a testament to the lingering grief for a love lost, cast a somber hue over the festivities. Legolas empathized with the depth of her sorrow, unsure if time would ever stitch together the wounds inflicted by the loss of Kili.
Adding to his disquietude was the impending perception that awaited him—the prince who had opted to depart when darkness cloaked their land in its most abysmal embrace. The whispers of judgment, the weight of expectation, all converged to shadow the joyous occasion with an aura of conflicted sentiments.
Lost in the labyrinth of his contemplations, Legolas remained ensnared in a web of introspection when the gentle rapping of Nienna's knuckles echoed through his chamber. His reverie disrupted, he found solace neither in answering her summons nor in acknowledging the passing of time, until she ventured in, bearing the reminder that duty and tradition awaited his princely presence at the celebration.
Nienna stepped into Legolas's chamber, her presence a calming whisper amid the turmoil of his thoughts. Her demeanor, as always, exuded a gentle wisdom borne of years spent nurturing and guiding the royal family.
"Legolas," she spoke softly, her voice carrying a warmth that sought to dispel the shadows clouding his spirit, "Mae haer, ion nîn. Iant Echuir anuir gwedyr oer." (It is time, my dear child. The Mid-Winter fest awaits your presence.)
He turned to her, a flicker of reluctance in his gaze, though he knew her counsel was as inevitable as the changing seasons. "Nienna, Im... ni ammenen le beriathar." (I... I am not in the mood for festivities.)
She nodded knowingly, understanding the turmoil that lay beneath his words. ""Ú-'erich, ion nîn. Acha, marth a hí vi eryn, gwedi beriar, made." (I know, dear one. But sometimes, it is amidst celebration that we find solace, even if it feels elusive.)
Reluctantly, he conceded, "Adanin edraith, na dorthad" (I will make an appearance, as required.)
Her eyes, wise and understanding, met his. "Aníron leithia vi glaur o nithol, Legolas. Vi 'lûr ned i 'weritho vi 'lathron am leithio. Mae adad pedo vi adhened vi le, pedo vi thîr am beriar." (You need not carry guilt for choosing your own path, Legolas. Your heart has lingered in the shadows for too long. It is time for you to seek the light, to find your own way.)
"Ach, adar ni," (But my father,) Legolas's voice faltered, a worry etched across his features. "Ach ortho vi gwelitho vi adhened, ach vi ortho aron." (I fear leaving him behind, especially after everything.)
Nienna's gaze softened, her voice a soothing melody, "Thranduil ned vi maer vi ammenen, ion nîn. Vi gellatha viith vi amarth vien leithol. Vi adhened ned vi chwina vi; vedui vi adhened pedo vi hîr am beriar vi le." (Thranduil is stronger than you think, my dear. He has weathered storms far fiercer than this. Your absence will not break him; it will grant him the space to find his own peace.)
Legolas looked at her, seeking reassurance amidst his uncertainty.
A tender smile graced her lips. "Pedo vi estelio vi vi vorenith, marthach vi genni vi i arth. Ned vi avadui vi, ned vi rhagar pedo vi falas vi critho vi beriar." (You must trust in his resilience, just as you start on your own journey. You are not abandoning him; you are simply spreading your wings to discover your destiny.)
The weight of her words settled upon him, a bittersweet realization dawning within. As he gazed at Nienna, her unwavering support offering a sense of liberation, he found a newfound resolve stirring within, urging him to embrace the unknown that lay ahead.
Thranduil found himself ensnared within the labyrinth of his thoughts. The weight of realization pressed upon him, compelling him to confront the stark truth that had been veiled within his heart for far too long. He had been too stringent, too resolute in molding Legolas to fit the confines of a role that threatened to cast the same shadows that had haunted him.
As he watched Legolas make his entrance into the fest, adorned in the resplendent garb of the prince, a pang of bittersweet recognition gripped him. The attire, a symbol of tradition and duty, felt like chains that threatened to bind his son to a destiny that didn't align with the essence of who Legolas truly was.
Legolas stood his princely attire a stark contrast to the untamed spirit that radiated from within. Clad in the rich hues of the forest, his ensemble spoke volumes—a testament to the warrior spirit that thrived beneath the facade of royalty. The elegant yet understated attire seemed almost an ode to the duality of his nature, embodying the harmony between regal lineage and untamed prowess.
Thranduil's heart clenched as he observed his son, the realization settling upon him that this might well be the final time Legolas would partake in such formalities. The fest, steeped in tradition and protocol, felt incongruous against the backdrop of Legolas's true essence—a warrior destined for paths beyond the confines of royalty.
Legolas, though adorned in the vestiges of princely decorum, exuded an air of quiet strength and resolve, a silent declaration of the indomitable spirit that yearned to chart its own course. His gaze met his father's, holding a depth of understanding and unspoken assurance—a wordless promise of departure, not just from the festivity but from the constraints that tethered him to Mirkwood's expectations.
In that fleeting moment, Thranduil found solace and a pang of sorrow entwined within him—a poignant acknowledgment that his son was not destined to tread the predetermined path of royalty, but to forge a destiny that resonated with his true self. And amidst the festivity, an unspoken farewell lingered—a silent adieu to the prince, a resolute welcome to the untamed warrior that Legolas was meant to be.
Thranduil's eyes, a blend of pride and subtle amusement, traced the lines of Legolas's attire—a delicate fusion of princely elegance and a hint of untamed spirit that bespoke volumes. "Pedich i cheri, Legolas," (You have chosen well, Legolas,) he remarked, a touch of warmth softening his tone. "Mae haer, ha vi ned bain pedich adad echuir anuir." (It suits the occasion, and I am glad you did not evade this festivity.)
Legolas met his father's gaze, a playful glimmer dancing in his eyes as a smile, mischievous yet affectionate, graced his lips. "Pedig leithon vi ned nín, adar," (How little you know me, father,) he quipped in a tone that wove the strands of jest and earnestness. "Ned vedui thad boe i mâb lond vi chwino vi garth." (I would never dare to escape such a grand affair.)
Thranduil chuckled, acknowledging his son's jest with a nod before the smile on his face faded into a solemn expression. "Legolas," he began, his voice carrying the weight of contemplation, "Mae haer, naid edir lín pedo vi chwith." (there is much we need to discuss.)
The playful facade dissolved, replaced by a gaze that mirrored his father's seriousness. "Ú-'erich, radar," (I know, father,) Legolas responded, his voice carrying a depth that echoed his understanding. "Leithon vi ned—vi glaur o beriathar, vi lathron o iriar ned am genni mi." (I've felt it too—the weight of expectations, the shadow of a role not meant for me.)
Thranduil exhaled, the admission heavy in the air. "Leithon lín vedui, i vorn, i nîr, mab nín." (I have kept you trapped, my son. Out of fear, out of worry.)
Legolas's gaze softened, a filial tenderness coloring his voice. "Ú-'erich, adar. Ach mae haer pedo vi genni vi beriar vi arth. Nîn vi 'lûr ned i lathron vi i aran, boe pedich adhened vi revia vi aníron nîn." (I understand, Father. But the time has come for me to forge my own path. I can no longer play the role of the prince, bound by duties that do not resonate with my heart.)
A poignant silence lingered between them, a moment pregnant with unspoken understanding and a silent farewell to the constraints of tradition. Thranduil, grappling with his own reservations, nodded in reluctant acceptance, his eyes holding a mixture of pride and a tinge of sorrow.
"Ned pedin lín, mab nín, Legolas." (I will not stop you, Legolas,) Thranduil spoke, his voice steady yet tinged with a hint of melancholy. "Pedo vi beriar vi arth, mab nín. Boe vi bradwr ned am leitho." (Find your way, my son. Be the warrior you were meant to be.)
Legolas met his father's gaze, a steadfast resolve reflected in his eyes. "Hannon le, adar," (Thank you, father,) he said, his voice carrying a quiet determination. "Pedin lín vi aníron nîn, ach boe vi revia am beriar vi i laew nîn." (I will honor our legacy, but on a path that aligns with my true self.)
The unspoken understanding, the unyielding bond between father and son, echoed in the unspoken words that lingered within the hallowed halls—a silent agreement of acceptance and a farewell to the prince, as the celebration was slowly starting and everyone gathering.
As the festivities unfolded within the hallowed halls, Legolas found himself engaged in conversation with various royal elves, members of the court, a few of his trusted guards, and cherished friends. However, a common occurrence persisted—a circle of elf maidens vying for his attention, drawn by the allure of the prince's company, each hoping to capture a fragment of his regard.
Amongst the throng of eager attendees, Althea, Nienna's daughter, seized her opportunity, much like she had done on numerous occasions. Blessed with the privilege of familiarity, her kinship with Nienna granted her the liberty to seek out Legolas without fear of being rebuffed.
As customary as the seasons' turn, Althea found herself gravitating toward Legolas, joining the flock of admirers drawn to his presence. Unlike others who sought their audience with a hint of adoration, Althea's approach bore a subtle air of camaraderie, a comfort born from the familiarity of shared moments and easy conversation. Her status as Nienna's daughter granted her an unspoken immunity, ensuring Legolas greeted her presence with an affable smile, inviting her into the circle without hesitation.
Althea, her demeanor exuding an air of curious anticipation, leaned in, her voice laced with a tinge of intrigue. "Aníron, Aran Legolas, maeth Tauriel? Adanen ned leithon i garth," (So, Prince Legolas, what of Tauriel? I've heard she was banished,) she said, a glint of satisfaction dancing in her eyes, an unwelcome joy at the news.
Legolas, striving to maintain composure, replied evenly, "Tauriel ned i mae haer i garth, ach vedui vi leitho, ach aníron vi." (Tauriel is no longer banished, but she has chosen not to return, for reasons of her own.)
The conversation took a discordant turn as Althea persisted, her tone colored with disdain. "Leithon vi gwaew," (I've heard whispers,) she continued, "marth maeth leithon i fell am vi adhened i naugrim. Pedich! Aníron leitho vi mad go hothol vi naugrim mîl." (that she fell for one of those dwarves. How absurd! Fancy being enamored by such ugly creatures.)
A sigh escaped Legolas, his patience tested. "Tauriel vi laew ned i nîn, ach ned pedin thad beir vi i rind. Ned ned vi nâdach boe I guia, ach ned pedin thad rachio," (Tauriel's heart is her own, and we mustn't judge others' affections. It is not for us to condemn but to introspect,) he offered, seeking to quell the brewing tension.
Althea's annoyance mounted, her voice edged with frustration. "Man pedich leitho vi le? Vi chwinaed i fell rhin vi ned a naugrim. Maeth mae haer, pedich rhin." (Why do you defend her still? She had to choose between you and a dwarf. If it were me, I'd choose you.)
The words, a dagger aimed at the heart of their friendship, cut deep. Legolas, his temper reaching its limit, interjected firmly, "Ach vi ned i nîn, ach ni vedui boe." (But you are not her, and never will be.)
With a graceful bow that conveyed both respect and a definitive end to the conversation, Legolas turned away, leaving Althea simmering in indignation, the weight of his words lingering heavily in the air—a poignant conclusion to a discourse tainted with judgment and misplaced affections.
As the revelry continued to swirl around him, Legolas lingered a while longer, a silent observer amidst the joyous throng. Conversations ebbed and flowed like a gentle melody, laughter punctuating the air, mingling with the soft strains of elven music that drifted through the halls.
Yet, amidst the merriment, an unspoken decision had crystallized within Legolas—the time had come to bid farewell to the familiar confines of Mirkwood. With a heavy heart and a resolute spirit, he navigated the crowd, offering warm smiles and gracious nods to well-wishers, his mind already set on the imminent departure.
As the festivities neared their crescendo, Legolas sought out his father amidst the myriad of guests. Thranduil, the Elvenking, stood tall and regal, an enigmatic figure amidst the revelry, his eyes tracing the movements of the crowd with an inscrutable gaze.
Approaching his father, Legolas paused, a tidal wave of emotions surging within him. For too long had their interactions been veiled in duty and expectation. With a steady stride, he closed the distance, the echoes of their unspoken conversations echoing in the spaces between them.
"Adar," (Father,) Legolas began, his voice tinged with both reverence and resolution.
Thranduil turned, his gaze meeting Legolas's with a mixture of understanding and a hint of wistfulness. Wordlessly, they embraced—a rare moment of genuine connection, bridging the chasm that had grown between them.
In that poignant embrace, time seemed to stand still—a silent acknowledgment of unspoken words and buried sentiments. It was a hug that transcended the roles they had played, a testament to the depth of their bond, unspoken but palpable.
Releasing his father, Legolas lingered for a moment, a silent farewell exchanged in the depths of their gazes. With a nod and a whispered promise to return someday, he turned away, striding purposefully towards his chambers.
Gathering his belongings, each item a cherished memory and a symbol of the life he was leaving behind, Legolas took one last lingering glance at the halls that had been his sanctuary and his cage. With a heart heavy with both sorrow and anticipation, he left, stepping into the unknown that awaited beyond the borders of Mirkwood.
As the gates closed behind him, the moon casting its silver glow upon his path, Legolas set forth on a journey that would carve his destiny—a path untethered from the expectations of royalty, guided only by the echo of his heart's whispers and the promise of an uncharted horizon.
((Upcoming Chapter Fourteen))
Thank you for taking the time to read this! Feel free to Review - Follow - Favorite!