Dark Leaf

by JastaElf

 

Author Notes:

Reference is made to Thranduil's ancestry toward the end of this chapter.  For those of you eager to know more, and to learn whence came the inspiration, as well as to understand certain remarks made by Celeborn in one of the flashbacks below, I highly recommend AC's fiction in her Folly of Starlight Series, to which your Humble Servant™ is highly addicted. It can be found at:

http://www.ithilas.com/el.html

The story you specifically want is "We Are Finding Who We Are", wherein Legolas gets a lesson on family history from a certain Shipwright….  I like her take on it, and I include passing reference to her genius here, as a mark of fond respect.  But the whole series is delightful, very well written, and lots of fun.  Not to mention, the sex is hot and engaging.  The names of two of Legolas' sibs are taken with her permission from her series, though the reasons for the deaths of the Queen and her daughter are different to serve different AU story lines.

Also below, buried throughout the course of the tale, there are fond bits of homage to Some Writers Whose Work I Like™: AC, of course, and TreeHugger, and Irena.  I shall be interested to see if anyone other than those authors can catch them.

Specific commentary:

Alon is concerned that even a young Elf could not successfully be convinced to "get it up" unwillingly, and I take her point.  However, there is no Orc viagra (concept scares even me!) and no potions were doled out; witness Galgrim's comment that the day is long due to summer, and there is plenty of time.  Morgal realized Legolas' physical maturity early in the day, and this nasty party goes on for all the daylight hours.  If it were one right after another, I would agree--but five matings in the course of thirteen hours of daylight is not beyond anyone, especially a virile young Elf.  I may add a line to that effect, indicating a longer amount of time passing; as I re-read it, there did seem to be an implication of rape after rape after rape. Sorry about that, but thank you for pointing it out!

Cuteness Alert:

The second and third flashbacks feature Legolas as a toddler and a newborn, in that order.  They actually do advance the plotline, but I was told by my beta reader that insulin is your friend.  (wry grin) I tried not to make it too cutesy, but figured too that a little break from unremitting angst was probably a Cunning Plan™.  So, forewarned is forearmed.

Reminder: flashbacks are in italics, and are set off by the following symbols:

 

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And now Chapter Four, wherein a familiar old friend has a chat in the woods of Imladris, and Thranduil takes an unhappy look in the Mirror of Galadriel….

 

Dark Leaf, Chapter Four: Conversations with a Little Golden Bird

 

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From time to time Silvan Elves ventured near the tower, to sit during the daylight hours beneath a certain window, high up on the murky structure.  Until night began to fall, they sang the songs of the Elven-kin and called out encouragement; until nightfall, they struggled to ignore the cries of agony and the sounds they heard from within, knowing there was only one voice in Dol Guldur that could sound so, one young body that would be made to endure such tortures as they imagined would pry forth such cries.

They left food such as Elves might eat, and clothing such as their kind would wear, in ever-ascending sizes–for surely, long before now, the son of Thranduil would have outgrown the clothing he had been wearing on the day he was captured.  It was all they could do, as the Orcs within Dol Guldur would not let them in as visitors, but only as prisoners themselves–and they would not have added to the young Elf captive’s burden in any way, by allowing themselves to be taken on an errand of mercy for him.

They knew all too well how he suffered within, and from what torments, and vowed silently that someday all would be made right somehow.  Somehow….

The Orcs stole the food and mocked the singing, but were only too happy to give the clothing to their captive, as it relieved them of any responsibility save that which they had been given.  And that was to see to it that the blood and seed of their captive went to the making of more Orcs, to see to it the captive was kept entertained in divers ways that the Orcs found amusing…

And the Silvan Elves waited, patient, their immortal hearts burning with anger.

And they were not alone….

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 

It was a warm afternoon, and Anar was bright in the cloudless summer sky.  Beneath the daystar's flame there moved a lightly-burdened mare and her rider.  They had been travelling for a very long time, and the kind-eyed roan horse was weary with the effort, so her rider reined in gently for a stop at about midday.  He unsaddled his mount, smiling as she head-butted him in thanks; he gave her water from the little rivulet of a creek, took some for himself, and then knelt to ask the grass for a kindness.  When permission was granted, he harvested a handful of long verge and tied it into a broad knot.  It made a handy tool for scrubbing sweat and dirt from the mare's side, stimulating her tired muscles almost as well as any less homely tool might have done.  When he was finished with his ministrations, he thanked the grass and let it float away on the creek's journey toward the Bruinen.

Then, the needs of the mount cared for, he let her crop grass nearby as he sat down to rest and smoke a pipeful of Hobbit leaf, pondering the summons that sent him pelting across Middle-Earth this fine and lovely day.

His name was Mithrandir, Grey Pilgrim, among the Elven-kin.  To the Men of Gondor and other Westron realms, he was Gandalf the Grey, one of the great and powerful Istari, a wizard and sometime conjuror.  He was older than many realized, though he looked it, at least by the measure of Men's eyes.  No smooth-faced, ancient-eyed one like the Firstborn; no, Mithrandir was older than they, and somewhat looked the part, though at the moment travel and recent hardship made him seem older and decidedly less well groomed.  His long grey beard was unkempt with haste, his equally long hair wild from travel; his robe and pointed hat were disordered and grimy, sweat-stained and road-worn.  If any chose to discount him for such faults, more fool they; the staff tied to his saddle would disabuse them, if the look in his blue eyes did not.

Those eyes gazed now through wreaths of smoke as Mithrandir thought long and hard.  He blew smoke rings, stars, trees, and other magical shapes, as his thoughts went this way or that; eventually there appeared an Elven bow, immediately followed by a phantom arrow of smoke that bent back and flew afar, disappearing into the shade of the little glade wherein he rested. Mithrandir's gaze became sad, and he exhaled another smoke-picture, this time of a small bird that sailed away after the arrow.

Little bird, caged in Dol Guldur….

Mithrandir sighed, tucking his pipe into the corner of his mouth. So long to be absent from Isengard; such a sad summons to bring him back. He had been many places over the last several turnings of the year's Wheel, but recently had visited with his old friend, Círdan the Shipwright, Master of the Grey Havens of the Elves; then he had been in the Shire, watching over other concerns and beings that had come under his care from higher authority, too high to argue with, even if he had been so inclined--which he was not.  In the midst of a time of peace, he had received word of great grief and strife.  Shadow had arisen once more in Dol Guldur; whispers of darkness were seeping out of Mordor like black mist on an overcast morn, and a young child of the Elves had been caught in its net.  Not just any child either, but the lastborn son of Thranduil Oropherion, the Doom-haunted King of Mirkwood.

Little bird… little golden bird….

Mithrandir thought back to the message that had reached him on the road some days past.  From Curunír it had come, he whom Men called Saruman the White, head of the Istari Order to which Mithrandir belonged.  It spoke of the great suffering of King Thranduil these last eighteen years--suffering upon suffering, added to that of the loss of his elder children at the end of the Second Age, then the death of his remaining daughter, and of his Queen as well, only a few years before this current grief.  To now lose his youngest child to such an horrific fate--Mithrandir shuddered, a thing not easily accomplished after so many long, long millennia of battling Shadow.

Orcs bred from a princeling of the Sindar… an Elven soul of a high and ancient lineage, fostered unwilling to Shadow….  No, this was not even remotely a beneficial thought to those who had been charged with the care of Middle-Earth.  If such as Galadriel and Elrond could not devise the means to halt such a thing, to change it 'round and make it better, long past time for other eyes, other hands to be turned to the task.

Curunír's command was simple: Go and fix this thing.

Mithrandir gave a mirthless smile, one bushy eyebrow curving up over an ironic eye.  Of course.  So simple….  But then again, perhaps so.  Eighteen years was not so long a time, not even to Elves, though he had no doubt at all it had been an eternity to young Legolas. He closed his eyes, thinking back.  His last visit to Mirkwood had been when the prince truly was little: the merest scrap of an Elfling, small as a perian and only half as wide….

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 

"I am told your little one has grown as great as the eldest of mallorns," Mithrandir said, eyes twinkling as he turned from greeting Thranduil's elder children, grave, fair Brethilas and the ever-lovely Minuial.  The youngest prince of Mirkwood was behind his parents, all but perishing of the effort to be good and quiet and not to wriggle, held in the arms of one of Thranduil's warriors as he waited to greet the beloved visitor.  The Elven-King smirked proudly, his blue eyes shifting slightly to his left as a particularly undignified flurry of activity heralded Legolas' precipitous descent from his keeper's hold; a slender form in green and blue streaked forward, but Thranduil caught him by the back of his tunic and hauled the Elfling off the ground.

The little prince went as still as still could be, dangling from his father's grasp; Mithrandir schooled his expression to blandness, pleased the little one had learned such a lesson so young.  All Elven children were taught so, to trust their Elders implicitly, and to react to such a grasp with obedient stillness.  Placing a finger under the pointed chin and lifting, Mithrandir gazed into the bright blue eyes; he smiled, reading the attentive excitement therein, feeling the shiver of delight from the princeling.

"Well -- perhaps a small mallorn," he amended, and chuckled.  Thranduil laughed as well, and set the very young child on his feet between them.

'Ve le iest, tithen emlin,' the King said gently, and prodded his son in the shoulder.  Legolas smiled brightly up at the Maia, and launched himself upward as if he were trying to climb a tall tree; Mithrandir happily bent to assist, and took the little Elf amidships.  Slender arms wrapped about his neck, entwining in the grey hair; in a soft, excited, melodic voice, young Legolas expostulated at great length about how wonderful it was to see Mithrandir again, and how could he possibly have stayed away so long!

"You mustn't ever stay gone so long again! I was only a baby when you left!" the child announced breathlessly, leaning back long enough to look Mithrandir in the eyes.  Then he touched his forehead to that of the Maia in greeting, grinning at the closeness.  "Now I'm all grown up!"

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 

All grown up.  The innocent words of a child….

In the time he had been gone on this round of his guardianships, Mithrandir knew much had changed.  Thranduil's little golden bird had gone on his first hunt at the great old age of twenty-three, and had yet to come home.  Curunír's message had explained it all: how Orcs had attacked the hunting party, and the child had been wounded with a poisoned arrow; how those Orcs had carried the child off into the waiting arms of the King of the Nazgúl, who had then threatened Thranduil with dire consequences if he did not show his throat to Shadow.  The Elven-King was a powerful and proud creature, ancient and strong, but his all-pervading love for his children was his undoing ….

Since that day, goblins and Orcs and Uruk-hai had taken their ease in all but those parts of his realm that were closest to Thranduil's own halls; had run there to hide after committing all manner of depredations on the surrounding countryside, and the darkness, the rot, the decay had crept ever more powerfully northward across an ever more murky Mirkwood.  And Thranduil himself had been sunk deep into despair--the only thing keeping him in the East, much less in life, a faint and dimming hope that someday his best-beloved child would run free of Dol Guldur.

Mithrandir blew a sad smoke ring and gazed mournfully through it.  There were three great Elven-realms still in Middle-Earth.  Lothlórien would remain strong and untouched so long as Galadriel and Celeborn held sway; it would take a powerful creature of Shadow indeed to breach the strongest magic since Melian's Girdle had protected Doriath.  Imladris was protected as much by natural barriers as it was by the powerful and learned hand of Elrond….  But Curunír had had disturbing news of some manner of bond between the captive Prince and the Lord of Imladris, and Elrond rarely made it through a handful of days without some kind of crippling visitation from the tormented mind of the son of Thranduil.  Most distressing… strategically unpleasant….

And Mirkwood--May the Valar help us all!--if Mirkwood fell, as she bade grim to do should this sad circumstance continue, then Shadow's most active military opponent since the Last Alliance would sink into defeat, and there would be naught to prevent the spread of Shadow up the entirety of the East, from the Anduin to the farthest reach any thinking creature had ever gone.

No, it must not come to that, Mithrandir thought, and shook his head as if the motion would help to cement the thought, give it substance.  He glanced sidewise to where the roan continued to crop grass, never wandering far from him.  She looked rested enough; it was time to continue on.

He rose and called to her, raising saddle and blanket from the ground; the roan was ready to go in a trice, and Mithrandir bent to knock the spent ash from his pipe before mounting up once more.  But as he straightened, there came a sort of tickling sensation at the base of his neck; he turned, raising blue eyes skyward, and was just in time to see the erratic, exhausted flight of a small bird, unerringly headed for himself.

Mithrandir narrowed his eyes at the creature, and held out a hand to it, calling to it.  A flash of gold and bars of brown, a little speckle of white on the wings… and behind it, stooping to strike, a fair-sized kestrel, fresh and powerful.  The goldfinch collapsed into Mithrandir's waiting hand, panting; he cupped the little one to his breast, crooning soothingly to it.  The kestrel whistled and screamed in frustration; it reached the bottom of its dive, smoothly swooped back into a streamlined loop, and disappeared into the trees above the Maia's head.  Mithrandir glanced upward, following its retreat with a sharp gaze, and called out a rebuke in words the raptor could not have failed to comprehend.  Then he turned his attention to the terrified finch in his hand.

"Well now, malthen-emlin," the wise one murmured, stroking the creature's bright poll with a gentle finger.  "What is this, then?  Such a manner in which to spend a day!"

The finch recovered some of its poise and stood, tiny claws tickling Mithrandir's hand as it walked across his palm, hopping up onto his thumb to preen.  It tipped its head at him, regarding him with bright little eyes; then it began to speak to him in a series of urgent twittering peeps and whistles.  He listened with great patience, as finches tend to blather on somewhat before getting to the heart of their message, knowing the little one would only become riled if he interrupted.  A riled finch was no great matter, of course, but it would only mean the message would have to be repeated as they cannot bear to be interrupted, and needs must begin again from the beginning.

Silly though finches can occasionally be, this one had dire news indeed--for it had paused on a windowsill high in the wall of Dol Guldur, taking in all that it saw with its bright little eyes:

Silvan Elves camped at the foot of the hill, singing sad songs and looking most desperate; Orcs celebrating over the supine form of an exhausted, quite thoroughly molested youngster of the Elven-kin (and here the finch shuddered, ruffling its feathers, for such things should never be done to the Firstborn, oh no sir, and it is the duty of the Istari to repair such harm, is it not?)  And the Anduin is threatening to flood, there is insufficient rock beneath the soil near Rauros to prevent too much erosion, and oh yes, of course, you are wanted in Lothlórien, Mithrandir!  You must find the kind-eyed Lore Master and bring him to the White Lady… did I mention that crebain are nesting again in the heights of the Misty Mountains?  Nasty big mean things, too, only caring for shiny trinkets, not proper bird-folk at all….

And on it went at some length, the important interspersed liberally with the commonplace, though truth to tell Mithrandir only barely heard anything after the thorough molestation of one of the Firstborn.  He closed his eyes in pain, thinking of Thranduil's son: now I'm all grown up….

It was not a coincidence that a goldfinch should bring this word. Mithrandir knew that as surely as he knew the bird was driving him close to distraction with its rambling.  Galadriel and Celeborn had been present at Eryn Lasgalen the day young Legolas was born--coming into the world as precipitously, some several weeks early, as he had been unexpectedly conceived--and in the quiet, cheery uproar surrounding Queen Luthiél's sudden labour, Galadriel had moved placid and wise as always.  Celeborn had maneuvered a bemused Thranduil into position on the bed behind his lady, cradling her slender form within his embrace, ready to help her bring the child into the world, and the White Lady herself had pushed up her embroidered sleeves to catch the lastborn princelet as he came forth….

 

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"He sounds like Oropher in a rage," Mithrandir chuckled from the corner by the window, handing Galadriel a soft cloth in which to wrap the wriggling, wet bundle of Elfling as she brought it up out of the warm bathing water.

"And squirms like a snake shedding its skin," she murmured, deeply satisfied.  She glanced back to the bed, where Thranduil was soothing his lady down from the pain of the birth, giving of his strength to make up for the helplessness most males experienced while their beloved womenfolk suffered through bringing infants into the world.  Then with a smile, Galadriel looked down at the newest member of the House of Oropher.

It was a male, with long pale legs, a slender torso well-formed, and arms that struck out powerfully; the face was softly pointed at the chin and had fine, delicate cheekbones, and around the mouth Galadriel thought she could recognize something of Thranduil when he was tiny like this.  There was a downy and abundant fuzz of sunlit-gold hair on the little head, sticking out all over, soft and straight as it dried from Galadriel's ministrations with the cloth.  It was an older beauty going back a generation or two, all but trumpeting the maternal side of Thranduil's lineage, and the White Lady felt the twinge of irony, wondering how the proud Elven-King would react if he noticed.

"Little hellion," Galadriel murmured fondly to the outraged infant as it aimlessly kicked her wrist.  Celeborn appeared at her elbow, gazing down at the child; he chuckled as if at some private joke, and inserted the little finger of his left hand into the rosebud lips.  As soon as the tip of that finger touched the roof of the infant's mouth, the Elfling began to suckle strongly.

"Stars shine on you, little prince," the Lord of Lórien said softly.  Then, crinkling the corners of his silver-grey eyes at Mithrandir: "I wonder if they will name him Ingwë?"

"Not-so-little hellion," Galadriel retorted, her lovely mouth pursing in wry amusement.

"Ingwion, then?  Or perhaps -- "

"Perhaps we shall allow the parents to choose," Mithrandir chuckled, cocking one bushy eyebrow.

The infant, much calmer now, stared up at his elders with brightly knowing eyes of a sapphire blue; the look he gave to Galadriel suggested that they had known one another somewhere before, and if he had not had a mouthful of Celeborn's fingertip, he might actually speak up to continue some old conversation broken off for one reason or another.  The White Lady dipped her chin a tad and focused even more closely on that knowing young face; there had long been a belief among the Firstborn that the freshly opened eyes of a newborn held clues to the depth and identity of its soul, and she was intrigued.

But just then, the little prince's gaze was distracted by something at the window, a brighter gold flash against the fading evening sunlight.  He turned his eyes from consideration of Galadriel's ethereal beauty and stared at a goldfinch that landed on the sill.  As the little bird began to preen, the infant princeling gave a soft, burbling mew of a sound that might have been a laugh, might have been a sigh, might indeed have been some combination of the two.

"Malthen-emlin," Thranduil said softly, coming up beside Galadriel as humble as a petitioner, gazing over her shoulder at his newborn son.  "It is a good omen, I think--is it not?  A goldfinch for a fair young Eldar?"

"Indeed it is," Mithrandir announced, putting out a finger so the bird could hop up, fearless in the presence of the Firstborn race and their Guardian.  The infant's eyes, bright as stars, tracked the bird wherever it moved.  Galadriel handed the now swaddled Elfling to its father, arranging the pale head in the crook of Thranduil's velvet-clad arm.

"Name your son, Thranduil Oropherion," she said gently, tracing a circle and a star on the forehead of the little one.

"Legolas," the Elven-King announced, gazing with paternal pride on the little face, and sucking in a breath of amazed delight when the sapphire eyes turned from the goldfinch to stare unblinking at him, for all the world as if he recognized the name and had just been waiting for someone to say it.  "His mother and I name him Legolas, Greenleaf.  And tonight when the stars arise in the vault of the heavens, we will present him to the joy of his forebears…."

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 

Mithrandir mounted up in the roan's saddle, and leaned down to address the beast with kindly urgency.

"We must hurry, little sister," he told her.  "Imladris before nightfall; Elrond and I needs must speak, and I fear if the Yrch have been at the little Prince, then Elrond's mind will have caught the backlash.  Time for haste, fair one--noro lim!"

Off they raced, Maia and mount as one in their focus, and a ruffled little goldfinch sailing along behind, not wasting her breath to complain of their haste.

 

**********

 

Haldir of Lórien bowed deeply before the Lord and Lady.

"Thranduil Oropherion, King of Mirkwood," he announced with quiet gravity, one strong arm sweeping to indicate the direction in which the guest should go.

Thranduil inclined his fair head politely, if distractedly; this scene had been replayed every year, only the one sent to fetch him changing from time to time, and he was certain he could make it through Lothlórien blindfold, from Naith to grove to the base of Galadriel's Mirror, with no escort at all.  But there were forms to be observed.  There was an almost ritualesque flavour to the whole thing, and the Elven-King found himself wondering if, in centuries to come, this would all be enshrined as some kind of ancient ceremony, none knowing its origin save himself, Galadriel, and Celeborn.  And, of course, young Haldir--who had probably been his escort from flet to grove the most often, over these eighteen years.

Someone will ritually walk from that sad little hut, he thought to himself, even as he bowed before the rulers of Lórien and gave traditional greeting to his Elders.  They will present themselves, they will make small talk, they will bow; then they will look in the Mirror and weep as I have done.  Then perhaps they will have cakes and tea, and think they have re-enacted some great moment of the Firstborn… treading on my heart in the bargain and wiping the feet of tradition on my Legolas' childhood.  They will never know….

It did not occur to him to consider he was being overly dramatic.  He was too old to be overly dramatic.  But apparently he was not too old to be riven like a felled oak, not once, but eighteen times….

At least eighteen times, he amended, and struggled to pay attention.  Galadriel was speaking to him, her lovely mouth moving; he could not seem to make sense of her words, however.  He had been weeping for so long, he felt drugged with exhaustion and grief.

"Forgive me, Lady," Thranduil whispered, wincing to realize he was interrupting her.  Never interrupt! the voice of his father growled in his mind.  "I fear I--did not hear your words.  Wh-what did you say?"

Galadriel schooled herself not to let show the pity she felt.  Thranduil had never mastered his lessons on handling pity.  "I am of the opinion you might wish to forego gazing into the Mirror this year," she repeated kindly, her voice soft and low.  "Curunír has sent for Elrond and Mithrandir to assist us; perhaps this year, there will be better news.  You might wish to look at a later time."

Thranduil stared at her, taken aback.  Celeborn had a sudden thought that he looked a little like a puppy that has been unfairly kicked by an otherwise loving master.  "Not--look?"

"I fear for you in your current state," Galadriel said, unruffled by his hurt blue eyes.  "You are, it seems to me, perilously close to the edge of the cliff.  Moreso this year than in the past."

There was a lengthy silence.  The merest suggestion of a confused frown rumpled the serene, pale brow; Thranduil seemed to discover a headache attempting to bloom in his skull, and he brushed ineffectively at it, as if he were swatting away a cobweb.

"Lady--" he was appalled at the pleading tone in his own voice (was that me? Sweet Elbereth…).  "For the sake of pity you cannot deny me.  I have come here for no other reason, the Valar know that much!"

"I do not deny you.  I ask that you deny yourself."

A stubborn thrust of the chin: "He is my son."

"And very like you," she allowed ironically.  "I ask that you deny yourself, Thranduil."

"Daughter of Finarfin--he is my son!"

Even Celeborn the unflappable winced at the palpable grief in that wracked outcry.  Thranduil could not have sounded more tormented if Orcs had been hauling his organs out his mouth with pincers, right there in the grove.  He dropped to his knees before the White Lady, not daring to touch her; his strong hands were limp at his sides, and he bowed his head.  The long golden hair hung about his face like a veil of mourning.

"Do not ask me to deny myself this.  No matter what they are doing to him--what they have done--it cannot be worse than the not knowing.  I do not have the strength to make a decision such as this."

She cupped his face in her long white hands, faintly disturbed to feel tears trickle over her knuckles; Galadriel raised his head, made him look at her.  All the elements of Middle-Earth were in his eyes: the breath of pain, the mud of desolation, the fire of a father's agony, the tears in waterfalls of bright, encompassing loss.  He had not looked this lost even when Luthiél's body was pried out of his arms for burial, some thirty years and more in the past.

Of course he did not look so, for he knew she was dead, her torment over….

"Son of Oropher," Galadriel breathed now, her words for him alone, "there are worse things in the wide old world than not knowing."

Thranduil took a deep, sobbing breath.

"Do not deny me," he pleaded, so soft he could barely be heard, the words tumbling over one another in a desperate rush to forestall what he feared was inevitable.  "The child is alone in that place.  Nothing of the Firstborn touches him save the mind of Elrond, and that is more torment than any Lore-Master has had to endure since the world began.  You know my son knows when we look in upon him like this; the older he has gotten, the better he realizes it, and I must believe it gives him strength.  I cannot allow him to believe his father has forsaken him.  I cannot.  I will not."

"Son of Oropher--"

Thranduil brought his hands up and touched her wrists on either side of his face, gently, as he might cradle a butterfly in his grasp, tentatively, as if he feared she might break--or might break him.  He was shaking all over, now.

"Please," he whispered, his melodious voice fracturing.  "I will beg if I must."

"You waste a great deal of your waning strength on a petition you need not make," she chided him very gently.  "I have never said I would not let you look.  If you have not the means to make the choice not to look, then that itself becomes the choice, son of Oropher."

He broke down then, as she knew he must; he had been holding himself tighter than a bowstring, and even the finest of those will snap in time.  Proud Thranduil bent over double before her, his forehead all but touching the ground; one sharp cry, one bitter sob broke from him, and then he wept.  Galadriel knelt above him and placed a kiss just at the top of his kin-braid, then rose with an unuttered sigh to draw the water from her sacred spring.  Celeborn came, silent and steady as the ancient rock, and gathered the stricken Elf into his arms; Thranduil was able to resist for perhaps a heartbeat or two, then he surrendered to the inevitability that was his Elder kinsman.

He was a boneless wrack of exhausted dampness by the time Celeborn finished with him, and it was many minutes before Thranduil could move.  The Lord of Lórien handed him a beautifully embroidered square of pocket linen, made him repair his dignity with it, and eased him over to a bench until he was in some version of shape to fulfill his quest.  The son of Oropher was still bent over, clutching his chest as if he were in pain; Galadriel did not doubt that he was.  She minutely shook her head and watched him sidelong for several moments, then began an unhurried progress to prepare the Mirror.

She slowly took up the silver pitcher and dipped it into the spring; the burbling sound of water on metal sounded ultimately civilized in the moss-draped silence of the grove, and it called to Thranduil.  His head came up; he stared at the pitcher, eyes glittering with unshed tears in the dimness, making Galadriel think of firelight seen through many layers of ice on some ancient lake.  She waited, drawing out the moment to give him some space for calm; he watched with attentive stillness as small drips beaded up on the cool silver and rolled down the sides.  Then, when it seemed he might be ready, Galadriel tipped the pitcher and allowed the water to cascade out into the basin set into stone before her.  Thranduil's lips parted on a sigh; he tried to stand, but his legs would not support him.  The look he gave Celeborn would have melted the heart of a goblin; the lord put an arm about his shoulders and guided him over to the carved stone pillar on which the Mirror stood, remaining beside him to keep him steady even as Thranduil gripped the edge of the top.

For a long moment he could only concentrate on breathing; Thranduil seemed to hear the voice of his first arms master, Erthilar, instructing him: breathe, young prince, in through the nose, out through the mouth.  Deep breaths, Steady on… hold that nock until I tell you… Breathe….  Across from him Galadriel's eyes were closed, and she was breathing with superb calm, unruffled.  Erthilar would be pleased, Lady, you breathe like a warrior….  When the White Lady smiled without opening her eyes, Thranduil knew she had heard his thoughts, and he blushed.

Then the surface of the Mirror cleared and an image began to form--and Thranduil was no longer aware of anything but what was before him in the water.

At first there was darkness, then an ever-growing sense of redness, as if one were watching the sun rise, or torchlight brighten, from inside another's head.  Silence was the Mirror's way, and so there was no direct sound by way of the vision; but over the years Thranduil had come to realize he would occasionally be given the dark gift of a moment here and there where he himself was inside the mind of his son, and thus hear things said by or to his captive child.  Still, it was several moments before it became clear that he was seeing what was in Legolas' mind's eye; for the images wavered, replaced by the bleary picture of an Orcish female leaning very close, a filthy paw of a hand coming even closer, gripping tightly upon tender flesh. The King's hands tightened on the edge of the font into which the Mirror was set, until his knuckles showed whiter beneath the winter paleness of his skin.

Most of what happened next was the same old fare; Thranduil had never quite become inured to the sight of Orcs and Men beating his child, tormenting him with jibes and belittling him, but the very sameness of it was mercifully numbing.  A few tears dripped into the Mirror as he watched; he murmured in proud anxiety to see his son spit in the Orc female's leering face, and winced as she struck him for his brave insolence.

But then… Ai, the Valar forfend!--something happened.

Thranduil stared unblinking into the Mirror as the horror unfolded; pulled into the image, it was as if he were within the body of his son along with his mind, but with the damnably clear comprehension of an adult well-experienced in the art of sex, and he knew even before Legolas realized what was about to happen.  Felt the hand scrabbling in the groin; felt the vile caress, the sickening parody of a kiss, the clammy wetness of an alien tongue forced into his mouth with lust.  Felt the stirring of flesh, the uncomprehending terror and disbelieving self-loathing that his body should betray him so….

"No, Lady Elbereth, no--for the love of all things holy and good!"

Thranduil was unaware he had cried aloud.  Celeborn did not need to see what Thranduil saw, to know what could give birth to such a heart-rending supplication; he could do the sums in his head, remembered exactly how old young Legolas was.  The Lord of Lórien closed his eyes, pain lancing up through his gut.  He breathed through it and sang farewell as it passed through him, but there was no such easing for the Lord of Mirkwood.

Thranduil lost all track of time, became unaware that Galadriel and Celeborn were even still there, that he himself was even still alive.  The images came faster; it was like watching the unstoppable, fatally brave charge of the Mirkwood contingent at Dagorlad, knowing they rode to their Doom, Thranduil himself among them, the hooves of his mount churning the ground beneath as he struggled to keep up with Oropher and the insane maneuver went inexorably forth.  One could not look, and yet one could not look away, either….  Only this time, Thranduil was within the body of his son through the lad's mind and the Lady's Mirror.  It was himself the Orc females were taking; his own bones grinding against one another, broken; his own sex, taut with terrible need, aching, burning, release but another layer of shame upon horror upon hell….

The Mirror was not done with him even when the last of the females seemed to be done with Legolas, either, for Thranduil could feel other layers pressing down upon him, mercifully external to his son's grief-maddened suffering.  Thranduil could sense the presence of the Lord of Imladris through the echoing corridors of Legolas' mind; could sense Elrond Peredhil's fury and pain and nausea, his helpless rage at being utterly unable to do anything to prevent what was happening.  Clearly in the mind of Mirkwood's king could be heard the pleading voice of the Lore-Master: It is not your fault, child, you cannot blame yourself--you must not!  Think of something else, for the love of the Valar, think of anything else, holy Elbereth, why!  Legolas, please, hearken to me, hear me, blessed Valar, dear child, oh please, let me know somehow that you hear me!

And Thranduil could see Elrond quite suddenly, quite clearly, as if he were here in the Grove of Lórien with them.  Down on his hands and knees in his library, that quiet place of blessed learning and peace… his dark hair disordered about a face ravaged with pain, his stomach tight with agony as he retched and heaved, living through the defilement with Legolas, all the while waging an internal war for the youth's very sanity.  The son of Oropher tried to stagger back from the Mirror, but could not make his body respond; his eyes were wild with pain, his face a portrait of disbelieving terror echoing from his bereft child.

And then, all was peace; the silence of the Mirror was like the cool hand of a healer on a fevered forehead, and Thranduil stared into the dimness of it, his eyes gone all blue and black and grey like a storm at sea, waiting for the Doom that seemed to reach out from the basin to take him gently by the heart and squeeze.  He saw his son's face, grown to the youthful spring of early Elven maturity: angles and sculpted lines rather than soft curves of childhood; a rare and fey beauty that screamed Luthiél's bloodline, but also toppled Thranduil helplessly back to his own long-gone childhood, to the mother he barely remembered before she took her own life, and to the cold, proud beauty of his mother's father.  His tithen emlin was little no longer, but was a youth, and physically mature….

As if he were watching that face through a window, Thranduil could see another face superimposed over it: Legolas as he had seen him last, alive and in the flesh, painfully lovely in his childish beauty, one hand held out to his sire in patient stillness.  Blood flowed down that hand and across the birdlike wrist; the blue eyes locked with Thranduil's, and the king cried out softly in great and terrible pain, for he knew his son had thought of his warrior's trial at the height of the defilement, called upon the blood of his ancestry for strength, as he had been taught to do. Healing pride welled up in Thranduil; it was only that pride, that overwhelming love, the adoration and trust and worship he saw in his son's eyes, that kept his own ancient heart from cracking with grief at the last piece of information the Mirror gave to him before it went black:

Ada, please, I beg of you, do not leave me here.  Do not leave me here, or I shall die….

Thranduil's body slipped senseless to the ground, felled like a great tree; only the powerful arms of Celeborn kept him from going face-first into the dirt.  Even in his lack of consciousness, the Elven-King wept like an abandoned child, the sound pitifully wrenching for its lack of volume or drama.  Celeborn bowed his head over his fallen kinsman; nothing else in the grove moved or gave voice for a very long time.

Then, finally, the Lord of Lórien spoke.  He did not raise his head, and his voice was soft; he hoped Thranduil could hear him, hoped Elrond could hear him, hoped Legolas could hear him.  Hoped, in fact, that the Nazgúl could hear him.

"Enough of this," Celeborn of Doriath announced in his matter-of-fact way.  "I have had enough. This ends, my Galadriel. This ends now."

The White Lady bent a considering gaze upon him, pondering things that had gone forth in the past after similar utterances by the quiet, commanding, subtle Elf-lord she loved.  Her only answer was a calm nod.

Ada, please….do not leave me here, or I shall die….

This ends now, my Galadriel….

 

************

 

Translation notes:

Ve le iest, tithen emlin = as thee (dost) wish, little bird (thee being archaic singular 'you', as addressed to the much younger or otherwise socially inferior), in Sindarin. I hope. ;-)

Ada: 'daddy,' Sindarin diminutive of Adar, 'father'