Reviews please:)
Part 1: Flee of the Fallen
Chapter 2: The Silent Tear
Index Table:
Naneth: mother
Adar: Father
When the orc stabbed its sword through her mother's heart, he let a tear fall. The gaping wound poured blood onto the ground, staining the earth with sorrow.
When the door to his father's study slammed shut in front of his face, he let a tear fall. The sound echoed through the silent halls of Mirkwood, a reminder of his mother's absence.
When Tauriel, his sister, boarded the ship to Valinor after her betrothed Kili died, he let a tear fall. He watched the ship sail away, taking Tauriel with it and leaving him with emptiness once more.
When the herd of spiders attacked his patrol team, leaving none alive, he let a tear fall. The forest floor was littered with fallen comrades, their lifeless bodies and bloody limbs a testament to the cruelty that had encroached upon their once joy-filled lands.
But he could no longer shed tears, his heart guarded by stone and ice, an unshakable fortress against the unending pain.
He could still remember the time when Mirkwood was still Greenwood. Each night after dinner, his parents would relieve themselves from the heavy workload of running the kingdom and take him and his sister down to the gardens. His father would tell stories of his adventures, and his mother would sing softly to them. Tauriel was always the first to fall asleep, cuddled between their parents.
"Legolas," his naneth would say, "go to bed right now, or you will never become a great archer like your father."
He used to giggle at the threat and let his adar put him to bed willingly, listening to his mother's songs and his father slowly sipping his wine.
Legolas Greenleaf's hands tightened on his bow, the smooth wood a comfort against his war-hardened hands.
He quietly walked past the gate of the kingdom, the guards giving him curious looks that were dismissed with a wave of their prince's hand.
Though the sun hung high in the cloudless sky, the dense canopy of Mirkwood cast long, eerie shadows that danced upon the forest floor. The twisted, gnarled trees stood like ancient sentinels, their bare branches interwoven to block out the daylight. A sinister, swirling fog crept along the ground, curling around the tree trunks and seeping into every crevice. The forest was alive with a cacophony of unsettling sounds: the rustling of leaves that seemed to whisper secrets, the distant cry of a bird of prey, and the faint, rhythmic tapping of unseen creatures. Legolas, with his keen elven senses, was acutely aware of every movement and sound. He could hear the skittering of countless legs across the forest floor, the telltale sign of the giant spiders that spun their intricate webs between the ancient trees.
The darkness that had taken hold of Mirkwood had emboldened not just the relentless spiders, but also the orcs. These brutish creatures, driven by malevolent forces, roamed the forest with impunity, their guttural voices and heavy footsteps echoing through the trees. Legolas knew that traversing this treacherous forest required constant vigilance and unparalleled skill. Every shadow, every sound could be a harbinger of doom, and there was no room for error in this accursed place.
A strange sensation tugged at his senses—an ancient presence beckoned him further, deeper into the heart of the dark forest.
He wasn't supposed to be out in the forest alone with only his bow and perhaps a handful of arrows. Yet intrigued, he followed the invisible trail almost instinctively.
He emerged into a small clearing bathed in an otherworldly, serene glow. At the center of this sacred space stood a magnificent, ethereal white tree, its presence almost celestial. The tree's trunk was smooth and radiant, glowing with a soft, pure light that seemed to come from within. Its branches, delicate and graceful, extended skyward in a sublime, intricate pattern, resembling the very hands of the Valar reaching out to the heavens.
In awe, Legolas took a step closer, the sense of divine presence intensifying.
With a soft voice, he whispered, "I am lonely. Most of my family and friends have sailed away. I carry the burden of Mirkwood alone, and the shadow grows ever darker."
A soft sigh escaped his lips, and he placed his palm on the bark of the tree. His life flashed before his eyes.
He was ten, his naneth teaching him to listen to the voices of the trees in Greenwood, smiling at the way his innocent eyes shone with curiosity when the forest whispers erupted around him.
He was twenty-six, his adar setting aside the mountain of documents to place a small dagger in his hands, feeling the wonder of being able to protect the ones he loved.
He was forty-two, his adar's hand on his shoulder helping him balance the heavy bow in his hands, hitting the bull's eye for the first time. His adar picked him up and spun him around, as if he were a carefree little bird.
He was fifty-seven, his naneth handing him little Tauriel, who stared at him with large blue eyes like his own. He marveled at the thin and fragile fingers of the baby, singing a melodic song his mother taught him.
He was seventy-one, on his first trip outside Mirkwood, the black mare snorting at his enthusiasm as Tauriel drooled on his naneth's robe.
He was a hundred, dressed in his best attire, nodding solemnly as his father placed the crown on his head, vowing to protect his people. Little Tauriel waved happily in the crowd, rushing to hug him, both grinning like fools.
He was six hundred and eight, the last captain of guards having sailed and recommending Legolas for the position. His father summoned him to his study, giving him a hard stare, saying "don't disappoint me," but unable to hide his pride.
He was eight hundred and twelve, hearing the horn of Mirkwood blowing and shouts from above, pushing past the crowd to see his naneth lying on a saddle, an orc sword protruding from her heart.
His father slamming the door in his face, the sound thundering through the empty hall.
Tauriel sailing away without looking back.
His patrol team...
Legolas wept, tearing his heart apart.
And he fell.