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"Was that really necessary?"
The comment, warped in repulsion and exasperation, falls short of the source. A freshly decapitated Orc head dangles beneath the taut fingers of Legolas Greenleaf, the elven Prince of Mirkwood. The once living scoundrel was the only link left to his hunting party, and in turn those pesky dwarves. So why on Earth had his father so hastily ended the rogues life, just as his words grew in information?
Thranduil merely casts the blood from his sword, in one fluid flick of the wrist, ignoring his sons irritated comments.
The King takes slow strides, taking him down the staircase faster, but avoids the princes eyes. He looks to the ground as he gives orders.
"Tell the guards to close the borders. I don't want anything to come in or out of the kingdom without my knowledge."
Legolas nods, looking on in awe at his father's fast retreat.
He was often reminded that the life on the throne was free of bloodshed, and only pressing matters should draw the Kings sword, yet he had seen it shimmer with black blood mere moments ago.
What had his father so distraught?
Legolas tosses the grotesque remain aside, and sets on a fast pace to catch up.
He's stalled, however, when the Captain of the Guard, Tauriel joins his hunt.
"Where are you off to in such a hurry, Legolas?"
"My father.....where is he?"
The elven maid stops dead in her tracks.
"In his chambers, but I would advise to stay away. He seemed rather distraught. Besides...you know he forbids you from going there."
The Prince's mind momentarily flits back to younger days, when he would naively beg his father to let him slumber with him, seeing as the castle was impossibly dark at night. He would always recive the same cold rejection, and a banishment to his own room.
He bids her farewell, and begins a long stroll.
-
In the field of battle, Legolas fought with a sharp eye and quick reflexes. He could easily map out any setting or situation, and very rarely found himself dumbfounded, unless challenged by a fellow elf.
Though this was no war, he finds himself begging for any ounce of that same strength. His eyes rake nervously over the door to Thranduil's room.
The elf felt like a child again.
He shoves the thought away though, and enters, a slight tremble still plaguing his hands.
Inside the Prince finds three intertwining pathways, and feels them move and change with the limbs of the forest. Each holds a different theme, and sings a different song. Upon seeing no sign of his irritable father, the curious being begins investigating each one.
The first calls of whimsy and humour, filled to the brim with outlandish decoration. Silver antlers branch in all directions, forming an odd canopy. Goblets sit on holes carved from the wall, and Autum has somehow sprinkled golden leaves on every surface. Legolas briefly wonders if it is enchanted, much like the crown of Mirkwood.
Further on is a hallway of stone and alabaster, rhythmically mixed with equal beauty and danger. Briars line the walls, guarding what seems to be ancient weapons, forged no doubt at the start of their race.
When Legolas moves to investigate the third and final entrance, he is stopped dead in his tracks. Darkness, suffocating and unnerving, draws the elf back with concern. What secrets were his father withholding?
He grips his fist in anger, pushing through the void, only to find his vision fuzzy, and incapable of making anything out. The ground crunches beneath him, and he is soon on the end of the tunnel. Still a bit unhinged, the Prince mentally refuses to turn back.
He stands in the centre of the chamber now, surrounded by the personal belongings of the King. It seemed odd, to feel such awkwardness in a place so close to his heart.
Still with no sighting of his father, Legolas returns to his vigorous game of peeping, shrugging off the nagging tug in the back of his mind.
His hands sort through trinkets and tokens of the past before being halted by soft beams of moonlight shining onto the floor.
The Prince inwardly smiles, turning to get a better look at the ray, but he is once more stalled. On the other end lay the dusky corridor, now slightly illuminated. Legolas returns to it, intrigued by a glimmer of copper.
With growing interest the elf unmounts the object, bringing it into visible light.
A painting.
Of whom, he hadn't the slightest idea, but his pale eyes trace every inch of the art.
An elven woman, wrapped delicately in grey silk sits, profile slightly silhouetted by the sunlight behind her. A brilliant, bright smile quirks her petal pink lips, and the lightest shade of colbat graces her eyes. The females hair is a warming honey gold, and a striking sliver circlet weaves about it.
The most intriguing part of the piece, however, rests in the stranger's hands, held high with elation.
A small, but hefty baby is being raised, eyes a slightly darker tone of its mother's, mouth silently laughing with joy.
Legolas can't help but smile at the touching scene, captured skillfully with utmost realism. He could feel, and hear the secret celebration, shared only between mother and child.
Befuddled, he turns the portrait over, searching for a name, an explanation of the scene, peculiar in his father's rooms. He finds it easy enough, beautifully scrawled in elvish on the top corner.
Yet, as the title forms, the prince nearly drops the painting.
The Queen and her babe, Legolas
He gasps, flipping it back, scanning the elven woman over and over, committing her face to memory without a second thought. His white fingers trace her cheek, tears cloud his vision.
His mother.
But it couldn't be. He had been told that she left them not long after he was born, despising responsibility and refusing the crown.
"Legolas! Haven't I forbid you to-"
It's Thranduil at long last, silenced at the scene.
In what seems like ages, the prince sets down the portrait, and stands, knees shaking with uncontrollable fury.
For once, Thranduil has no words, and his cold mask is replaced with a pained, skeptical, awe struck gawk.
"You told me after the fire, all the pictures of her were destroyed...."
Legolas' voice was betraying him, quaking with the tears that wet his cheek. He rememberd being told a forest fire, courtesy of a dragon, took his memories and left Thranduil scarred horrendously. His father attempts to speak, but he cuts him off, screaming with raw force at the mighty king.
"Son, I-"
"No! Do not feed me another one of your lies!"
At the violent snap, the room falls silent again.
He traces his mother's yellow hair.
"Is this why I am banished? I am forbade to gaze upon my own mother?"
"No."
He gazes up, shocked at the sheer emotion in the tiny word.
"I never meant for you to be denied that, Legolas. I was protecting you."
"From what? The truth?" His glance moves to the painting once more. The joy on her face was unmistakable, and even succeeded to grace his lips with a faint smile.
It's soon washed away with his continuing words.
"That my mother loved me?"
He can see the water forming in the kings stone eyes.
"Legolas, the fate of your mother was too horrific to tell you then. You were so young...."
"Then tell me now."
Thranduil merely waves his hand in a dejected manner, illuminating the hidden hallway.
With one more glance, the Prince reenters, finding similar oil pieces on all sides. Complete family portraits and more relaxed scenes call to him, bringing back a happiness that went unnoticed for a very long time.
However, each is distort with burns, either blacking out his father's face, or encasing the right side, where the injuries were.
Legolas turns immediately, finding the King with his jaw jutted high, lost in another world.
"What really happened to her?"
At those words, Thranduil turns, revealing the other side of his face burned and horrid, exactly like the paintings. His teardrops fall freely.
In breathless steps, the two seemingly similar, but entirely different beings grow closer, until there's only an arms length separating them.
Legolas struggles to look his father in the eye.
On the other end, the kings mind was racing, ridiculing itself for every begotten lie he wove to keep this particular fact a secret.
The truth was, he didn't want Legolas to know. Because if Legolas knew, there would be nonchalant questions, and questions brought back memories he refused to resurface.
He was stuck, caught in the web of his own treachery, about to be eaten alive with anxiousness. It's enough to send Thranduil to his knees in anguish, utterly shocking his son.
The younger elf drops to him, concern filling his actions. Confusion was etched there too, carved into fair features with jagged edges. He needed to be answered, whether the king wanted to or not.
"Long ago, Mirkwood had two mighty rulers, a king and queen. While the king was away, his bride would assume the throne, and take control of all decisions to be made. One day, the king left with his newborn son to celebrate with the far off elves of Rivendell. When he returned, his kingdom was being attacked by a dragon....."
Thranduil knew Legolas thought him foolish to word the story in such a way, but it was the only possible way he could relive it- by disassociation.
"The king immediately hid the Prince, and marched into battle, all the while searching for the beloved queen. When he arrived, it was too late. She had been killed, and remained a husk of the beautiful elf she once was."
Legolas' eyes were betraying his cool exterior. They were weeping, leaking out remnants in memoriam of the mother he never knew. He breaks his silence to ask an empty question.
"And what of the king?"
Thranduil gains a melancholic smile. He bends down, cupping his sons face in long forgotten affection.
"He managed to slay the dragon in angry revenge, but not before being scarred. The Prince and remainder of the elves lived on.....but their King was never the same."
A solemn look lines his features as he glances at Legolas', the perfect match of his mothers. He remembers looking into them as he took his squirmy baby from the wreckage centuries ago, and recalls the terrified shrieks he had concerning Thranduil's fresh scars. That was the first time he cast the charm. Even now Legolas looked at them with fear.
"Why didn't you tell me, father? I reached maturity long ago. It is honorable for elves to die in-"
"No. Not the Queen. She saw far too much pain, and died alone."
Legolas rises swiftly, almost knocking Thranduail backwards.
"Then why do you refer to her with such coldness? She is my mother, your wife."
"Was."
The elf sighs in exasperation. His father was lost, had been for a very long time. He places a tenative hand on the kings shoulder.
"Have you forgotten the beliefs of our people so easily, father? Mother isn't gone completely. She watches over us, granted vision by no doubt the great Lady Galadreil."
"I know our religions, Legolas. I grieve, but I also long to be beside her. She does not watch over me, I am sure."
Thranduil stands in one quick, swift movement.
"I have been feeling this way for a very long time, my son."
His face, once so frigid and devout of emotion, reads like ancient script. He wasn't suffering in the slightest, merely surviving. Perhaps part of him felt obliged to live, for Legolas' sake. He no doubt saw how tenative he was when it came to the throne.
The Prince smiles at the thought, and embraces his broken father, silently thanking him. Thranduil is suprised, but melts into the tenderhearted embrace, recalling times when the elf was much smaller, and hugged him without thought.
He watches in humble grace as his son departs, an earnest grin forming on his features for the first time in decades.