Disclaimer: Tolkien's sandpit, not mine.
Far beyond the Hithaeglir and across the wide leagues of Eriador, the sun had come to rest in a blaze of glory on the western horizon, casting a few final shafts of crimson and gold flame across the distant Sea before disappearing. The early hours of the night had passed but the stars still circled in the heavens. It had been a strange day of cold winds and sudden stillness, the skies curiously cloudless for a time so near to spring, and the night that followed was equally unusual: clear and calm, with a coolness to the air that was emphasised by the icy purity of the stars' silver radiance. The early watches passed swiftly but still the stars remained, watching over Middle-earth. Even Eärendil stayed his ship, tarrying low in the sky as low waiting for some signal before departing; while the Moon, only a sliver tonight, hung brighter than them all.
Eryn Galen lay in near-darkness: still, an observer might have said, at peace with the world and with those who dwelt there. But to the more discerning watcher there was—not a tenseness, exactly—more a contained anticipation of something long-promised and about to be fulfilled. Suddenly, alerted by some silent call, the slopes of the mountains began to glow with dozens of lights that sprang out one after another: a reflection below of the heavens above, save that these lights were small, flickering and swift, not moving in the slow, graceful dance of the vast constellations.
In what had once been the king's chambers, the mother of the new king arose from her couch and walked silently across the room to where a grey-clad handmaid stood. There was none in the Greenwood to compare with the Queen mother—oh, her son had inherited her beauty, the proud lift of the head and the golden head that seemed a mesh to capture light of sun, moon and stars, but the light in her face and eyes could not be imitated.
"It is time, then."
The girl nodded. "Yes, my lady."
The queen turned and picked up a mantle of deep blue shot with silver. Wrapping it about herself she fastened it at the throat with a jewel of great brilliance and, slipping her feet into a pair of soft embroidered slippers, stepped quickly through the door, followed by the maid.
"When did it begin?" the queen asked quietly.
"My lady the queen Eluial noticed the first pains an hour ago, but would have no-one brought until now."
"She is well, then?"
"Oh, yes, my lady, and though the healers are cautious I believe they expect an easy birth."
A faint smile crept to the queen's lips. "After you have had a child, my dear, you will understand that there is no such thing. And my son, how is he?"
The girl's eyes dropped, and the queen suspected that only her respect for the royal line prevented a smile.
"He was angry, my lady, that the queen would have no-one, but I think his anger is…"
"Merely a disguise for his excitement, anticipation and sheer terror," the queen finished. "Just as his father was, I recall."
Her luminous eyes shone even more brightly and she said nothing more as they walked along many-windowed halls and across grassy courtyards. The maiden remained in sympathetic silence a few steps behind, only nodding briefly in answer to the unspoken question she received from every guard they encountered. There was eager interest in every eye, and only decades of training kept them in their places and prevented a chorus of jubilant singing that would have wakened the entire palace. As it was, the news that the young queen's child had chosen to make his entry to the world was already spreading like wildfire. Every corridor in the palace was filled with soft murmurs, while one attendant had slipped outside to inform her family, who promptly passed the news from talan to talan.
In the king and queen's rooms a dozen Elves moved quietly, preparing for the hours to come and ensuring that every possible need of mother and child had been provided for. Privately, Eluial was of the opinion that most of it was completely unnecessary, while one of the healers would have done well to feed one or two of those sedatives to her husband, who was coming the closest to fidgety that she had ever seen him…and a fidgety Elf, while certainly interesting, is not the safest thing to have around.
Three of the best workers in Noldorin medicine to remain in Middle-earth—as well as Master Elrond himself— had travelled from Imladris as soon as the mountain passes cleared sufficiently to allow them to journey in relative safety. They were busy in an antechamber weighing herbs, making poultices and brewing draughts. Two Sindarin healers were also presently engaged in similar occupations, while their Silvan counterparts did…something or other that she had been assured was essential to the process. Several assistants cleaned instruments, heated water and carried cloths and bandages to and fro. At the centre of all this activity, its focus stood quite still, gazing out of the window to where dappled moonlight fell on a stone terrace.
"Have you never heard the old proverb that the Edain used to quote, meleth?" she asked of her husband.
"Which?" he replied distractedly, gazing at her in a kind of frightened, adoring awe.
"Too many cooks spoil the broth," she answered, humour glinting in her grey eyes. Thranduil blinked, then, realising to what she referred, said firmly, "No. They should all be here—just in case. I am not risking either your health or that of our child."
Turning to one of the healers, he queried in a hushed whisper, "How long will it be, Doronil?"
"A good few hours yet, my lord," he answered, giving the king a brief, reassuring smile.
"I could have told you that," Eluial pointed out. "I mean, I have known since yesterday morning that—"
"You knew?" Thranduil interrupted, staring at her incredulously. "You knew that you were going to deliver him today and you never told me?"
"Yes, of course," his wife replied patiently. "I have followed every movement of this little one for the past year—do you really think I could fail to notice something as important as this? Really, Thranduil, I would have thought that someone at some point as you grew up would have explained this to you…or, failing that, that the amount of information on pregnancy you have sought during the year would have clarified the question for you!"
"Yes, but why? Why did you not tell me?" the distraught husband demanded.
"Why do you think? To avoid all this for as long as possible, of course! It will probably take the best part of a day as it is, and I had no desire to lengthen the time I spent in here with you looking as though your entire army had just evaporated!"
"This is worse—a whole day?"
Eluial did not reply; clutching her stomach with one hand and pressing the other into the small of her back, she gasped and bent over, wincing. Immediately one of the Noldorin women was beside her, holding a cup to the queen's lips and beckoning a young apprentice over with an armload of folded, heated towels to wrap around her to ease the pain of the cramp. Elrond emerged from the antechamber and knelt by her side, murmuring something in Quenya. As the contraction passed off, Eluial glanced up at her husband.
"On second thoughts, perhaps not. You have begotten a son as stubborn and independent as yourself, I fear, and he wants to prove his Naneth wrong…don't you, sweetheart?"
Elrond was frowning, and Thranduil's hypersensitive nerves noticed at once. Catching his cousin by the arm, he led him away from Eluial and murmured urgently,
"There is something wrong, Elrond, is there not? How did you not notice it before? What is it?"
Elrond shook his head. "As the queen said, your son is probably just being impatient."
"Probably? Elrond, you are just like Díor!"
The younger Elf glanced up curiously. "What do you mean?"
"You are both terrible at hiding your emotions," Thranduil explained, looking worriedly at his wife, who was being led to a chair by one of the Silvan healers. "Is must be the blood of Men, or something of the sort, but I can read your face like a book and I know there is more to this than my son's character! What is wrong? Tell me!" he half pleaded, half demanded. Ignoring him, Elrond walked towards Eluial, looking back over his shoulder to warn, "Do not distress your wife, Thranduil!"
"I am not distressed," the queen retorted, having overheard his last words. "It is Thranduil who needs help…why do you not take him outside for a walk, Elrond, or send him for a drink, or engage him in fencing? You would be of much greater use then than you are now!"
Elrond only smiled in acknowledgement and, urging Thranduil to keep calm, disappeared back into his antechamber. One of the other Noldorin healers promptly hurried to Eluial's chair and helped her to rise and walk about the room, while a woman Thranduil recognised vaguely as one of Doriath's few surviving midwives urged her drink another cup of steaming herbs. Eluial made a face as they passed her lips, and asked the woman something Thranduil did not hear as he stood by the window, alternately watching the spread of lights across his realm and following his wife's progress with eyes that burned with anxiety, while his fingers plaited and unplaited small sections of his long hair, attempting to soothe his nerves in the repetition of the familiar motion.
A soft tap at the door alerted them to a new presence and Eluial, casting despairing eyes about the already busy rooms, signalled acquiescence to the young elleth who went to open it. The panelled door swung inward to admit Thranduil's mother and another attendant. The older queen went at once to her daughter-in-law and kissed her, speaking in a soothing undertone. Thranduil hurried across the room, seeking reassurance and comfort from the woman who had been the one constant throughout the many upheavals and tragedies of his long life.
"Nana," he said softly, the word an exhalation of long-held breath, as he laid his forehead on her velvet-clad shoulder.
"There, my son," she answered, brushing her lips across the smooth golden head before lifting it so that he was once more taller than she.
"And how is my first grandson?"
"He is very well," Eluial answered, eyes glowing with love and pride for the child within her. "But all these healers—Naneth, one tells me to sit, one to lie, another that I should walk to help the progress of the labour. One advises me to drink so many analgesic draughts that I can barely feel my fingers, let alone the pain, while another says the pain is necessary so I will know when…things change…and still another says I should have poppy to numb my mind! And it has been like this the entire year," she added, gazing at Thranduil with accusatory reproach. "If I had the advice of only one healer, then I would trust her and all would be well, but I have received so many conflicting instructions on how to best give birth to my son that I know not which to accept!"
The queen smiled sympathetically, but there was something wistful almost concealed in the depths of her eyes. "When Thranduil was born, he was the first prince of the House of Elwë since Galathil, quite a few decades before. Melian was there, with half a dozen of her ladies; there were refugee women from Ossiriand, who wanted the new prince to be born after the fashion of the folk of Lenwë and Denethor; then there was my mother, of course, who brought her entire retinue from Nargothrond, along with a few healers, and demanded entrance so forcibly that even Elwë had not the will to deny any of them."
Eluial laughed breathlessly. "And you were only the wife of a princeling with half a dozen others in line for the throne before him! I suppose I should have expected this, when I agreed to marry this son of yours." There was mischief in her tone but only love in her eyes, and Thranduil slipped his arms gently about her, enfolding her in a wordless embrace. His mother's eyes filled with involuntary tears and she turned briefly away, before continuing, "What I learned that night, my dear, I never had the chance to put into practice, but I will pass it on to you. My advice, at least, is simple: ignore them all and do what you know to be right."
"Those are the best words I have heard all night," the younger queen agreed, laying her cheek against her husband's chest and moving his hand onto her stomach so he could feel the movement of their child. Thranduil's face filled with the dazed amazement that had been present so often over the preceding months and Elrond, approaching from behind the queen mother, could not prevent the smile that gave the lie to his stern words.
"Rebellion in the palace, is it?"
The queen mother turned in mock-surprise. "Why, my child! Did you not realise that I have always ruled this family…and that includes you?"
Elrond had always been one of her favourite "nephews", but she was now only half-teasing, and he acknowledged her words with a smile.
Hours passed. The stars finally faded, giving way to the glorious brightness of the new-risen sun and Arien gazed eagerly down upon the world in general and, Thranduil thought, feeling the heat fall upon his face, upon Greenwood in particular. As the day wore on, the realm of the Elves remained in hushed expectation, awaiting the signal that would announce the birth of an heir and the beginning of their celebrations. But no signal came. In the royal chambers, Eluial lay on the bed, eyes bright but hands gripping her husband's so tightly that her long nails drew blood on his palms. Neither noticed, but Thranduil was acutely aware of each moan that passed, despite all her efforts, from between her pale lips. His mind was filled with thoughts of Míriel and the mighty son who had taken her life, and with visions of Eluial lying pale and cold, her spirit flown to Mandos… He loved the child he had never seen with a fierce, proud love, but Eluial had been the dearest thing in the world to him for centuries, and he dreaded the thought that the one might claim the other as his price for life. Elrond sensed the dark thoughts that tormented his kinsman and murmured words of encouragement, commanding him to banish such imaginings.
"It is not your wife who lies here!" Thranduil flashed back, eyes wild. "It is not your wife who grows weaker with every passing moment, your wife who…fades…" The words choked him, and hot, desperate tears wet the entwined, clutching fingers.
"It is a more difficult birth than we had expected, mellon nín, but that is no reason for despair!" Elrond returned, one damp brushing strands of hair from his eyes, the other moving over Eluial's stomach.
"But she is so tired—she is barely even with us any longer," Thranduil moaned.
"Our women are strong, Thranduil: she is devoting herself to your child. Do not fear that she will be too tired when the time comes." But as the moments passed by and still there was no change, the shadow is his grey eyes deepened and he looked on the king with the compassion of one who has seen death too many times.
Thranduil's mother, meanwhile, paced and prayed, hoping against hope that the Song had not decreed for her son the same fate that had been hers: parted from the one she loved for as long as Mandos saw fit.
Maids and healers came and went, strange weariness showing in faces and eyes. No-one signalled to the soldiers now; no-one sent messages to friends and family; no-one lifted their eyes from their task lest the gravity of the situation be betrayed. But the fear and anguish of that sun-lit room somehow escaped, pervading the palace, slipping into the Forest and creeping into houses, flowing into every talan. Women exchanged worried glances; children looked at their mothers with wide, confused eyes; warriors stared angrily at bows and swords, realising that this was one battle their beloved queen must fight alone, unnatural though it seemed to their people.
At last, when the afternoon was sinking towards another evening of wildly lit skies and cool, calm air, the queen's face changed. Fear clutching at his heart, forming a sickening ball in his stomach, closing his throat, Thranduil watched as his son was born, surrounded by capable-handed healers and the people who loved him most. And as he watched, despite himself the fear turned to something else: awe at the miracle unfolding before him, wonder that this was actually his son, the child of his body. There was a moment of hasty, blurred activity as blood-stained cloths were passed from one to another; someone approached with a bowl of warm water and a bundle of soft white material; a knife flashed and then…then Elrond was handing him a small, white-wrapped bundle. The world stopped spinning around him as he felt the incredibly warm, incredibly tiny weight in his arms. Thranduil took a deep breath and looked down into the face of his child for the first time. Everything in the world fell into place with a suddenness that made him wonder briefly why no-one else seemed to notice, but then all such thoughts were engulfed in the wave of love that enveloped him for his son.
He was so small. One miniscule hand lay loosely clenched on his tiny chest, and the skin was almost as pale as the material folded about his body, but there was a faint flush in the tiny, unbelievably soft cheeks. His baby mouth was red and pouting, and his nose was no more than a bump, with as yet no bridge and the daintiest, most perfect nostrils Thranduil had ever seen. His diminutive ears were flawless, every curve as smooth as a seashell, translucent and tapering. Over his head was a thick down of smooth hair, and Thranduil saw with a thrill that it was as golden as his own. It was the eyes that captivated him, however. The crinkled, damp lids moved, and in a sweep of dark lashes the child's eyes were open, gazing up to meet those of his adoring father. Grey. Grey as the Sea, and clear as starlight. And young, so young and new, but intelligent, taking in the strange new world with a hint of confusion in their innocent depths.
Thranduil could have stood there, motionless, for an Age or more but after only a few seconds he moved to the bed. Eluial had been cared for with efficient rapidity and now lay beneath the bedcovers, her hair brushed back from her face and a faint smile on her tired face. And alive; wonderfully, beautifully alive. Sitting gently on the edge of the bed Thranduil bent and kissed her, then slipping an arm about her waist, he passed the precious bundle carefully into her waiting arms. For an instantaneous eternity she gazed down into the face of the child she had carried for so many months, before turning to look at her husband. In her expression of pride, astonishment and adoration he saw reflected every emotion he had himself experienced in the preceding moments and Elrond, watching them with weary satisfaction, saw near-identical smiles creep slowly across each fair face as together they gazed on the miracle of their child. Eluial lifted one slender hand and stroked a finger against his cheek, as delicately as though a breath might shatter his perfect form, and Thranduil heard a sigh of contentment pass her lips. His mother approached, bearing a small silver horn that she extended towards him with a soft smile.
"Your people are waiting," she reminded him, bending over in her turn to greet the new member of her family. Reluctantly Thranduil rose, brushing another kiss against his wife's forehead, and accepted the horn. Opening the tall window he stepped onto the terrace and raised the little instrument.
Across the forest, Elves and Men and animals alike heard the clear, pure ringing of Elmo's horn, the sound that heralded the birth of a child of the royal line. Relief was palpable, followed swiftly by joy as a mood of celebration spread through the king's realm. Every glade was filled withElves dancing and singing, eating and drinking, cheering and laughing, setting alight the great pyres they had built, wishing blessings on Thranduil and Eluial and their child.
The evening drew on, the sun setting in a flash of triumphant glory and the stars eagerly rising, dancing in their turn. Spring was in the air, in the cool freshness that exhilarated without chilling, in the scents of the darkening forest, in the hearts of those who feasted and sang within and without the palace. Only in Eluial's room was there peace. Thranduil stood at the window, listening to the echoes of song, watching the stars above and the flames below and the Elves who filled the palace gardens.
"They love you too, iôn nín, so much…but not nearly as much as we do," he said softly, turning to revel in the sight of his sleeping family, lying in a pool of moonlight that illuminated each beloved detail.
His family. With a surreal sense of delayed realisation, Thranduil repeated the words, letting the syllables, so familiar in sound but strange in sense, run over his tongue. The many holes that time and war had stabbed into his heart were somehow no longer important; healed or forgotten when faced with the sight of the innocent tableau before him.
Eluial blinked and looked up at him drowsily, smiling to see the mingled ebony and aureate hair that spread over her shoulder. Thranduil walked quickly across the room and knelt by her side, burying his face in the linen sheet to hide the tears that burned his eyes. A cool finger slipped beneath his chin and raised his face so that he could meet her gaze.
"Thank you," he whispered, their faces so close that Eluial could feel his breath on her cheek. The smile that had not left her eyes since he first set their son in her arms crept again to her lips and she dropped her eyes to where the little one lay, well fed and contented, in the crook of her arm.
"He is worth any pain, any doubt," she said quietly. "And we—we caused him to live." Her words echoed Thranduil's own awe, but by now he was able to tease her gently. "With a little help from the One," he pointed out, touching the baby's nose with a forefinger that seemed enormous in comparison. "Well, perhaps," she conceded.
For several moments they remained silent as distant melodies drifted into the dim room. Then the baby yawned, his little face stretching, and they both laughed, wondering how they had ever managed to live without a tiny, beautiful, funny little person to complete them.
"What shall you call him?" Eluial asked softly. Thranduil shook his head.
"I told you before: we will both choose his first name. My mother need never know," he added with a conspiratorial grin.
Again there was silence as names were formed and discarded in turn in each of their minds.
"Our people were broken…they lost lord and loved ones in search of victory, but in the end faced destruction and despair," Thranduil said thoughtfully, apparently apropos of nothing. "He has returned hope to them—to me. Hope that after darkness, life returns."
"Just as the new green leaves do with the coming of each spring," Eluial agreed softly, eyes filled with empathy.
In the stillness that followed her words, a small smile stole across Thranduil's lips and the light in his eyes brightened.
"Legolas?" Eluial said tentatively, testing the name for fittingness.
"A good name for the son of the kings of the great forests, and for the heir of the lord of the House of the Tree," Thranduil remarked. "The only name for our little leaf."
There was no hesitation in his voice as he confirmed, "Legolas."
In his warm nest of soft material and comforting scents, the baby slipped suddenly back from the forgotten paths of childhood dreams. Two faces gazed down upon him in adoration, two pairs of grey, love-filled eyes watched his every movement. Familiar voices spoke tenderly in words he could not quite comprehend, but he knew they were words of affection.
Legolas laughed.
Author's Notes
This was written, as I said, for the 20rings live journal community. The theme was Beginning and my character is, obviously, Legolas. Gift-wrapped Elves go to Danielle, otherwise known as darthsnuggles, for creating the community and coming up with all the muse-itching words :)
I know that most people write Legolas as fairly young in the War of the Ring, or at least as younger than the twin sons of Elrond. My ideas about Legolas' family background are unusual in some respects, and as far as age is concerned, I haven't made a final decision between the "old" and "young" camps. For the purposes of this story, however, he was born in the spring following Sauron's fall at the beginning of the Third Age.
Sindarin Translations
Talan: flet
Meleth: love
mellon nín: my friend
iôn nín: my son