#lasgalen writes

[trenarnolegolaslasgalen]

Chapter I: Prince of Mirkwood (Pt. I)

The waters were peaceful just as the lore of ages say they were. I could see we were still days from the everlasting twilight of Aman, but I knew in my heart that once we made it there, I would see my family once more. I watched as the four elves on board spoke with quietly amongst themselves. We were the last of our kin to sail to Eldamar. The presence of a Prince from the House of Durin did not seem unusual to them after all that had happened.

As Gimli slept by the bow, I could not help to find myself thinking about the past. I would miss my home and all that I had left behind in Arda. The world I had once called home had changed. The moment I saw Aragorn crowned king of Arnor and Gondor, I could feel a change in the air. After everything the Fellowship had accomplished, I knew that I would become little more than myth; legend at best. With the sealing of Aglarond, the Dwarves joined the Elves’ fate in a world we helped to create.

As the waves of the sea carried us toward the Undying Lands, I watched the final vestiges of Arda fade into mists of time. The land where I was born would become a memory I would remember forever in quiet disbelief with a curious longing. My adventure was coming to an end, even as my life would go on forever. In that world, I began life as the son of Thranduil, the Elvenking of the Woodland Realm known for most of my childhood as Mirkwood. I was on my last journey from which I would never return. Who would I become beyond the shores of Arda?

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

I came into this world in Eryn Galen as Legolas Lasgalen Thranduillion in the month of Lótessë in the forty-first year of the Third Age. My mother was Queen Êlúriel Nenluin, a Nandorin from the lost land of Ossiriand. She died when I was still a elfling, but I remember that she was beautiful and kind. Before I was conceived, my parents took in Târthon, the son of my father’s best friend Melros. After he perished at Dagorlad during the War of the Last Alliance, his wife Árendil could not bear her grief and sailed to the Undying Lands leaving her son in their care. When I was old enough to understand, I was sad for Târthon but glad to have a brother.

My grandfather Oropher had died in the same battle that took Târthon’s father, but my grandmother Nimeithel was there to see me come into the world before she left for Aman with my mother’s father Nendúril. It would be the beginning of darkness for the Elves of Eryn Galen.--J.M.M ❁

© 2015. The Kingdom of the Woodland Realm Trilogy—Book III: The Last Tale of Legolas Lasgalen by Jayna�� Marie Miller. All Rights Reserved.

[clarakiki]

The spring revel

Thranduil x reader

Summary: Spring has come upon the Elvenking's realm and you know exactly how to celebrate it.

Genre: Fluff and Smut

Warnings: afab reader, no use of Y/N, mentions of alcohol and the reader and Thranduil being drunk, explicit smut, children (? not yours just yeah, they're there)

Notes: Hello my loves <3. Coming back to you with many firsts in this fic. It is my first time writing for Thranduil (I have a Lotr phase and can't get him out of my head) and my first time writing smut. So please excuse if it's not that great, I will get better I promise. I appreciate your comments and kudos and I hope you'll enjoy <3

You dance under the trees.

The air is warm and sweet, the torches glow with golden fire and the wine is flowing freely. The lush green canopy hides the night sky above, making it feel like you are in a great hall. 

The spring revel has come upon Eryn Lasgalen, and you are drunk and happy and free. Your bare feet feel the soft grass and cool rock and your short dress sticks to your body while you dance around the hill. 

Other elves twirl and jump around you, they take your hands and laugh with you. Tonight the line between monarch and subject blurs. The lively music of pipes and flutes makes your head spin. 

At the head of a great carved table, which bends under the weight of fruit and soft bread and carafes of deep red wine, sits your husband, The Elvenking, and for once he seems to be enjoying himself. Upon his regal brow rests a crown of flowers and leaves and his lips are curled into a smile. His wine cup is never empty.

Perhaps that is the reason he lets the group of elf children prance around him. Some are singing to the music and dance around happily, some climb on his lap and look up at him with their big bright eyes. One child has dared to touch his crown and braid his hair. For once he lets them, for tonight is a time of celebration for everyone, both a king and a child.

The round ends and you can finally go rest for a moment. Your spent legs carry you towards your own throne, one set next to your husbands. It is a beautiful thing, spun from intertwining branches and adorned with carved writing. Budding blooms decorate the headrest.

With a sigh you plop yourself, rather ungracefully, into your seat. Before your husband can get a word out, the child sitting upon his lap starts: “Please my lady, come and dance with us.” The little boy pleads and others join him.

“Did you not ask your king to dance with you?” you ask, teasing them a little, for you know the answer. 

A choir of intermingling voices answers you, one over the other accusing their Elvenking of refusing them. You laugh quietly at their distress and at your husband's tired sigh. “Alright, dear children, I promise I will come and dance with you. But you have to promise me, to ask your mothers first and then to go to bed on time.” 

The little faces light up and soon they are all scrambling to find their parents. 

“You saved me, my love,” Thranduil laughs, a rare sight. “How was your dance? You seem already spent.” You know he is only joking and you decide to retaliate.

“Oh, it was wonderful,” you exaggerate. “It would be better, however, if a certain elf joined me for the next song?” It is meant only as a jest but he surprises you with his answer.

“Be good to me and I just might,” he voice is low and rich and it does things to you.

“Are you too deep in your cups, or are you teasing me?”

“Believe me, I know how to hold my liquor and I am totally serious,” he smirks and drinks from his cup. You want to kiss the smug look off of his face. You might just do that later tonight. No, you will.

“I shall hold you to that promise.”

“I have never doubted that, dearest, however I believe you already have a different partner for the next round.” He points towards the crowd and suddenly the elf children come running back to you.

You stand up, grab the chalice from Thranduil’s hands and take a deep swig of wine. It is rich and bitter and your face scrunches at the taste. “I will dance with you tonight,”  you warn your husband and let yourself be pulled away by a throng of laughing children.

—

The night has given away into the early hours of morning when you get back to Thranduil. The crowds have thinned, the music slowed and the elf children finally went to sleep.

“My love,” Thranduil says standing up, when he sees you. 

You come together like it’s second nature now. He embraces you around your middle and you hide your face in his chest. He smells sweetly of wine and flowers. You would drown in it if you could. 

He cups your face in his big hands and you look up into those cold cold eyes, warm only for you. “Are you ready to fulfil your promise?” you ask, voice low. 

He smiles at you like he does at no one else and your heart melts at the sight

“My king!” you exclaim drunkenly. “Let us dance around the hill one last time and after that I am ready to go to bed,” mumble the end of the sentence into his shoulder, your eyes already droopy. You feel him shake his head at your antics, but then he swoops down and kisses your forehead. You shiver at the gentle gesture. 

Thranduil, with you half leaning on him, leads you by your hand among the elves. A single lonely flute plays a slow melody, you feel entranced by it. The music and your husband's icy eyes lull you into a sleepy daze. 

You twirl in his arms and reach up to inhale his sweet scent, kissing his white throat. He hums above you and winds you to him even closer.

The air is warm and sweet and spring has come.

—

You are led back to your rooms by your husband, leaning on him, drowsy from both the dancing and the wine. 

You let yourself be lowered on the grand bed and look up at him with droopy eyes. “I want to kiss you,” you do not know if it's the wine giving you this courage or your sleepiness. 

Thranduil smiles at that, and it’s incredibly soft, and obliges you. He tastes like always, rich and full. “I love you,” you mumble into his lips. 

“And I you,” he answers, when he pulls away from you, setting himself gently above your thighs.

You don’t like that he is so far away, so you grab his hips and try to pull him back to you. “Please,” you whine. “Please-.”

“Use your words darling, you know I can’t read your mind,” he tuts above you, while starting to undo the lace on the front of your dress.

“Please touch me, I need you,” the fire is burning in your belly and you feel like you might burn if he doesn’t do something. Anything.

“Let me get you out of this dress first,” he promises and smirks, pleased with himself. His hands are careful, but sure, and soon the silky fabric of the bed covers caresses your skin. 

Then he stands up to undress himself. Reaching to take off his crown, he is a sight, naked, his brow adorned by flowers. Pale smooth skin and ice blue eyes. You swear he’s never been more beautiful than he is now.

“Come here, my love,” you say and he does. He lays over you and kisses you hungerly. You moan into his mouth, tangling your fingers in his silky hair, finding some of the braids the children left there. 

“Let me take care of you, dearest,” Thranduil whispers in your ear and you shiver at the thought. He trails kisses down and down until he reaches your thighs and licks and bites there until you're squirming under him, his strong hands pinning you down by the hips. 

“No more, just touch me,” you whine and pull at his scalp harshly.

To your horror Thranduil stops all together. He pulls himself up, your hands still in his hair. Above you he looks like a mythical being, one you should not have the honour to touch. 

“You have gotten so bold since we met. Commanding you king.”

With his slight smile and a teasing tone he brings you back to earth. “But you love that about me, my king,” you smirk at him.

“That is true, yes, but if I am to comply to you, and truly touch you like you want me to, you shall, let me tease you a little. As a treat,” oh, he sounds so proud, high and mighty. Yes he shall tease you, but you shall repay it tenfold.

With a satisfied smirk on his lips he returns to his task excruciatingly slow. He works you up again, lapping at your thighs, biting the skin there and holding you to the mattress by your waist. So the moment he does, finally tastes you with his tongue, it feels like you're going to burst. Dragon fire burns under your skin, unvanquishable, everlasting. Only he, Thranduil can save you. 

He is savouring your taste, as if it was sweeter than any wine he’s ever tasted. He builds you up to your peak slowly, taking his time, until tears of pleasure sting your eyes. The dam brakes, when you come from his mouth alone. It is deliciously painful.

Thranduil wipes his chin with his hand and lays next to you, circling his arms around you. You kiss him again, tasting yourself on his lips, reaching down to touch him. “Meleth nin,” he moans and you watch as his brows scrunch up and his blue eyes roll in pleasure.

You smile for yourself and kiss his neck, biting and sucking. The white skin goes dark quickly under your lips. In the end you don’t have the heart to deny him, and so you don’t tease him much. Still, he doesn't last long at all, for he was already bursting from eating you out. With a few final strokes he moans loudly and comes in your hand. 

You kiss for a time after that, but you both are too sleepy to continue properly. Thranduil, ever the gentleman, offers himself to go find a towel to clean you with. You would so like to watch him, as he prances around the room in all his glory, but you can’t hold your eyes open. You feel his gentle touches and hear his loving words, but at that you are already half asleep. The last you know is your husband pulling you to his embrace, holding you head to his chest.

You slumber as the dawn breaks.

[errruvande]

Hello! For the drabbles challenge, may I have Elrond (cause I love him so much 🥹) and the word is "necklace"?

Thank you, dear anon for participating in this little challenge 💓

The bright white cristal was shimmering under the hot summer sun of Imladris. Elrond took you with him to the marker to find, what he said, a gift for Arwen, he thought a council of a woman could help him out in picking the best jewelry. You leaned over a long table that was adorned in beautiful jewelries of different kinds: elegant rings with stones, bracelets of gold and silver and oh! A necklace. A necklace of gold, it looked like a ring that circles the neck, with one leaf on each end, from the right side of the ring a small droplet made of nothing else but the white bright gems of Lasgalen was hanging on a tiny twirled string of gold.

“You like this one?” Elrond took the necklace in his hands gently, not to damage the delicate string. You nodded, your pupils blown with amazement. “Can we try it on?” He faced the merchant and after waiting for his nod, he asked you to turn around. “Let me put it on, I want to know how it looks like on the neck.”

You did as you was told, you knew it must be worn to know how it feels and how it looks on a person. So you turned, gathered your loose hair to open the view for Elrond and sighted, already being upset that you'll have to give it back just in a few moments.

Elrond put it on, adjusting the ends with small leaves to make it fit your neck perfectly. The smile adorned his face as he took a step beck, studying you. “It looks perfect.”

“Then Arwen would love it!” You smiled back at him, radiating warmth, since you, as anyone else in Imladris, loved Elrond’s daughter purely.

Elrond chucked softly, not diverting his gaze from your smile. “Actually, my darling Y/N, it's for you”

You froze for a second, not expecting Lord Elrond to give you such a spectacular gift. You knew each other for a small amount of time and yet nothing of his deeds towards you made you think that he was romantically interested.

But is gifting such a beautiful necklace indicating romantic feelings or was it a gift of friendship? Now, you had something to think about.

Send me a word and a character from LOTR/TH, TLK or Vikings and I will try and write a drabble or ficlet ✨

[sotwk]

The Baker from Lórien (Haldir gen ficlet)

Summary: A visitor from Lórien brings some excitement to the kitchens of the Elvenking's palace.

Word count: 1.1k

Content: Pure fluffy randomness, mother-son relationship, toddler Legolas

Rating: General (no warnings apply)

To Read on AO3: Link

A/N: I wrote this ficlet purely on a whim; I had no plans or strategy for it going in. It could be nonsense, or I could be onto something. XD It's most likely going to stay a random SotWK AU one-shot, but who knows. I pretty much just wanted to finally write any story featuring Haldir, whom I love dearly and firmly believe was one of the most desired bachelors east of the Mountains. Special thanks to my friend @creativity-of-death who inspired the concept of a Baker Haldir long ago!

Headcanons about Haldir in the SotWK AU: Any questions you might have about the background history in this fic would be answered HERE.

The Baker from Lórien

Third Age 246 Spring

Bar Lasgalen, the Palace of the Elvenking

“Down and forward, turn, and fold over. Repeat. Remember to use the heel of your hand--this part, right here.”

The lump of dough felt pleasantly squishy in Legolas’s hands, and only with great self-restraint did the four-year-old elfling manage to resist playing with it like modeling clay, instead of following his instructor’s example. With eyes narrowed in determined concentration, he watched the steadily working hands of the elf across the table from him. After just a minute or so of observation, he began to mimic the brisk kneading motion.

“Yes, good! That is very good.” The visitor from Lórien seemed pleased, albeit surprised, by how quickly the child caught on.  

Legolas beamed at the ellon’s praise, and held the smooth ball of dough up high over his head in triumph. “Is it ready for the oven now?”

“Not quite.” The silver-haired ellon took the dough from Legolas and checked it with a few expert prods of his fingers. “It needs time to rest and rise. An hour at least, although up to three is much better, and then we can reshape it into loaves. Then it must rest again, before it can be baked.” 

“Three hours?!” Legolas exclaimed, already dismissive of whatever other steps came after. “Does bread really take that long to make every time?”

“The loaves should be fresh and hot out of the oven just in time for your Highness’s breakfast.” Legolas watched as his dough ball was placed into a large pan next to five others and covered with a dish cloth.  

“And a delicious breakfast is best preceded by a sound night’s sleep, is it not?” The voice that came from the kitchen doorway made Legolas scramble off his stool. He smiled sheepishly at his nursemaid, Ninniel, as she entered with a knowing smile and firm shake of her head for him.

The older ellon spoke up. “My apologies, Emmë. I should have realized the hour was too late.”

“It’s all right. It appears some valuable learning has been accomplished here, at least.” Ninniel took in the rather comical sight of her grown son towering next to her not-at-all-grown charge, both of them dusted in flour, and felt all her exasperation melt away. She dipped a tea towel into the washing basin and set to work wiping the sticky residue off Legolas’s fingers. 

“Will you come and get me when my loaf is finished baking, Halidr?”

“Well…” Haldir of Lórien glanced hesitantly at his mother. He was still unsure what to make of Thranduil’s sons, who all behaved without any regard or perhaps even awareness of their social rank. Legolas, in particular, had been unabashed in his fascination with Haldir ever since his arrival at Bar Lasgalen. Today was merely the first day of a month-long, overdue visit to his parents, and most of it had passed with the little prince turning up wherever Haldir happened to be, armed with a constant stream of questions. “It really is not my place to--”

“When your bread comes out of the oven, I will wake you to come and have it for  breakfast, with me and Haldir,” Ninniel interjected smoothly. “But the sooner you get to bed, the sooner you can rise refreshed for a new day, yes?”

“That sounds excellent!” Legolas threw his hands up, and wriggled his hips in a little sort of dance. “I shall be back in a few hours, Haldir! Please take care of my bread!” he called out to the bemused elf before bounding out the door. 

“Are you still finding everything all right, dearest?” Ninniel swept a light hand over her son’s broad back. In one touch she could tell Haldir was fairly relaxed, as she had hoped he would gradually become. Her eldest had always been the most serious of her children, and his nature only grew graver as the ages passed and the memories of hard years weighed on him. It had been far too long since his last visit to Eryn Galen, so rarely could he be persuaded to leave his post at the March, and Ninniel hoped the brief holiday away would be restful for his spirit. 

“Yes, everyone here at the palace has been… quite attentive.” Haldir smiled and planted a swift kiss over his mother’s hair. “The prince’s arrival sent them scurrying off, I fear, but I do not think he seemed to mind or notice.”

Ninniel shook her head. “The only thing they were running from was their own embarrassment,” she said. “I will let you return to your work, my love. Legolas and I will be back soon.”

And indeed, as soon as she exited the kitchen, she encountered the gaggle of young kitchen maids waiting in the hall, preparing to re-enter now that the royal Highness had left and gone to bed. 

“Lady Ninniel,” they curtsied to her, appearing only mildly abashed by her witness to their obvious intentions. But this was a small phenomenon Ninniel had grown accustomed to over the years, for it became clear early on that her handsome son elicited rather strong reactions from elleths, often without any encouragement. 

“My lady, if we may…” one of the girls blurted out. “We were wondering… that is, we wanted to make certain… do you know whether or not Lord Haldir…”

“He is not a lord, and he would not appreciate being addressed as one,” Ninniel corrected gently. “And as far as I know, he is not engaged, involved, or taken with anyone at present.” She gazed at the line of hopeful faces and pressed her lips to smother a chuckle. “Any of you are welcome to try and draw his interest, if that is your wish.”

But best of luck, indeed. Ninniel sighed as she departed, leaving the sounds of pitchy giggling behind her as the pack descended on her oblivious son. Whether there was any chance of a maiden in all of the Woodland Realm catching Haldir of Lórien’s eye, much less his elusive heart, she did not know. That hope had certainly not borne any fruit in over a thousand years of matchmaking attempts. But any diversion, any added source of joy outside of his work, his books, or his baking, could only be a good thing. 

Anything beyond that--dare say a betrothal, a marriage, or even a new precious grandchild--was something Ninniel was prepared to be completely surprised with. But a mother will always hope.

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[tiny-and-witchy]

Okay here we go.. As I promised @entishramblings after this post, I am now here to share my tengwar practice sheets in a little bit more detail. Although, these were initially just for practice so I actually haven't been paying much attention to precision and aesthetics of it.. Well, at least not enough to show them to people in this way so here we go @entishramblings , this is for you!!

(I will be posting this in pieces, I tried to make it into one post, tumblr wouldn't let me so I have to write it all over again, so sorry in advance for all the notifications.)

Here we go:

I started with some well known names of people, elves and places, like Imladris, Galadriel, Glorfindel and so on.. Also there are names of my friends and some half names (I started writing and realised it couldn't fit there) and random letters..

And if we juuust look towards the right side here:

You can see I wrote my name next to Legolas. (I may be not-so-low-key-head-over-heels in love with him..)

And here:

On the left, we see 'Eryn Galen' and 'Eryn Lasgalen', which translates to Greenwood (my baby's homeland how was I supposed to resist). And on the right is 'Celebrimbor', a name again, and 'Mae govannen' which is a phrase of greeting..

[lady-of-imladris]

CHAPTER 11 - I REALLY THOUGHT I LOST YOU

Synopsis: Thranduil lost his Queen. Now they all have to deal with it.

Word count: 2k

Pairings: Thranduil/OC

Warnings: Dealing with loss

Additional stuff: This is a super sad chapter and it took me a very long time to write it. Sorry. BUT. In honour of me finishing my degree, here you have it. There are 4 more chapters coming your way. Maybe there will be smut again.

Link to the chapter overview

That was the night I nearly lost you I really thought I lost you - The Great War (Taylor Swift)

After finding out what had happened, Celebrían did not talk to Elrond for weeks. If he had known it all along, why hadn’t he done something? Celeborn did not talk to Galadriel for months, remaining behind in Lasgalen alone while the Lady and their army returned to Loríen. She had been their daughter. Galadriel could have stopped it all. Why hadn’t she done anything? Thranduil did not speak a single word to either of them for many years. In fact, he barely talked to anyone. He did not leave his chambers for days. Did not eat, did not sleep. The king just laid there all alone in the darkness, his face pressed against the pillow on which his wife’s head had rested just such a short time ago.

Anarríma had been dead for a week when he thought he could not take it any longer. Why her? Why his Anarríma? “You are a cruel God, Ilúvatar,” he cursed amid the tears, “what monster would take a mother away from her child?” Thranduil dragged a hand over his face. Her blood was still all over him. “Take me. I beg you, take me, I cannot live without her.” The king fell to his knees sobbing violently. If the Valar had allowed Beren, a mere mortal, a second chance at life with the one he loved, even at the cost of immortality, why would they not grant it to her? “Bring her back. Take me instead if you must but please. Please. Bring her back.” Soft skin brushed his cheek. “Meleth nin. You know it does not work that way.”

Thranduil’s head whipped around. She stood there, shining like sunlight amidst all his darkness. As she always had, smiling down at him sadly. “Ana,” he whispered almost inaudibly. “Thranduil I need you to promise me something.” He tried to reach for her hand but he could not move. Was this what dying felt like? Had the gods answered his prayers? “Anything my love. Anything.” “You have to take care of Legolas. He needs you. You have to be there for him, you have to raise him and you have to tell him that I loved him. With all my heart I loved him.” Thranduil tried to get up, to go to her, to wipe the tears off her face, but he could not. “I can’t do this without you, Ana,” he confessed. She walked towards the door. “I know. But you have to.”

Thranduil awoke on a sunny morning, curled up on the floor. The pain in his entire body had dulled somehow. He sighed. The gods would not let him go to her. She would not let him go to her. ‘Fine, I will play your game,’ he thought to himself and rose from the ground with a loud sigh. He dragged himself to the bathroom daring a glimpse in the mirror. He had never looked worse. Thranduil could not possibly face anyone in that condition. He bathed. He washed his hair. He got dressed. His guards immediately stood at attention, startled by their king’s sudden appearance outside of his chambers catching them by surprise. Thranduil did not know where Legolas was or who was with him, having closed himself off from the entire world for over a week, but he knew that he would find him. And he did.

Celeborn was cutting up a slice of bread with butter into smaller pieces for the little Prince in the garden whilst Legolas was running around barefoot on the grass trying to catch a butterfly. Thranduil said nothing. He just sat down next to his father in law, who offered him a chunk of bread. Thranduil took it. “Is she still here?” Celeborn shook his head. “She returned home with her army.” “Her army?” Celeborn huffed a laugh. “I don’t know if there is an ‘us’ anymore after what happened.” Thranduil reluctantly ate the bread.

When Legolas noticed his father he ran up to him immediately. “Ada!” he jumped into his father’s arms so forcefully he knocked them both to the ground. Thranduil landed in the grass, Legolas on top of him, holding on to his father as much as his little hands allowed. “Ada I missed you,” he said. Thranduil choked back the tears. He had failed his son. ‘Forgive me, Ana. I will try to be better,’ he thought to himself. “I am sorry my little leaf, I was not feeling well. But I am here now and I promise I am not going away again.” The King of the Greenwood sat down next to Celeborn again, Legolas still in his arms. “Were you not feeling well because of Nana?”

Thranduil was glad his son could not see his face at that moment. He looked over at Celeborn, helpless. His father in law did not look much better than he probably did, swollen red eyes and a deep sadness that would never really go away. How had he managed it? How had he been able to care for Legolas amidst all this grief when Thranduil had not even managed to sleep? ‘You don’t get to lie to him,’ his eyes seemed to say, and Thranduil agreed. He owed it to his son. To his wife. To Celeborn. “Yes little leaf. Because of her.” “I miss her too, Ada. So much. But she will come back to us! Grandfather said she could!”

“She will be free to return to us,” Celeborn took over, “one day. But that day is still far in the future, Legolas. Your mother fought very bravely and now she needs time to heal. It will take many centuries until she is well enough to leave the Halls of Mandos. The next time you see her, you will be all grown up.” “But that is too long!” Legolas complained. “Why can we not visit her in the Halls of Mandos?” Thranduil tried to fight against the tears in his eyes. A battle he lost. “My little leaf, that is simply not possible. We have a duty to our people. I am their King and you are their Prince. Even if we were able to reach the Halls, we could never leave this place.”

Thranduil would remember little of this conversation and those days of grief in later years. But he would never forget what Celeborn had done for him. Would never forget his own failure. From that day on, no matter how great the pain, he pushed through. For his son. For his people. For her. If she returned from the Halls of Mandos one day, tens of thousands of years in the future, how could he possibly face her? He went to Celeborn one day and said to him “it does not matter what she did. She is your wife and you love her. Cherish the time you have together.”

The night before he was supposed to leave Lasgalen, Celeborn slept fitfully. He was anxious about his reunion with Galadriel. The Lord of Loríen did not know how he would react to seeing her again. A flickering light in the corner of his eye woke him up in the middle of the night. She was sitting on the bed with him. He could feel the weight of her hands in his. Celeborn stared at his daughter in disbelief. “Hello Ada.” She smiled softly. “Anarinya? What are you doing here?” Celeborn wanted to sit up, to hold his daughter in his arms once more, but he could not. “I have come to thank you for taking care of my son. And to say goodbye.” She squeezed his hand tightly. “Anarinya how is this possible? How are you here?”

A playful smile crossed her face. He remembered that smile. He had not seen it in a long time. “Let’s just say the Valar now know who they are dealing with.” “I don’t understand,” Celeborn looked at her in bewilderment. “I will explain it to you one day. Give it a few thousand years, Ada.” “Anarinya what are you talking about?” How could she know the future? She rose from the bed and kissed him on the cheek. “We will meet again, I promise. Please try to forgive Ammë, she had no choice. Goodbye Ada, I will miss you.” He tried to catch her hand, stop her from walking away but he could not move. “Anarinya?” he called after her as she walked towards the door. She stopped and turned. “Will it be worth it?” The Queen of Lasgalen did not answer his question. “Things are now in motion that cannot be undone,” she said solemnly and disappeared.

“Legolas.” A whisper, nothing more. The little Prince stirred in his sleep. “I love you so much my little leaf. I will love you until the stars go dark and the ruins of Numenor rise from the seas.” The woman bent down to kiss the little boy’s forehead. “Your path will not be an easy one, Legolas. But I promise, it will all be worth it in the end. Namarië my little leaf. Namarië.”

several centuries later

“Legolas!” Thranduil called from the balcony. The young elf walked hastily towards his father. “A beautiful night, Ada, is it not? The stars have not been so bright in quite some time.” He was right, they seemed to shine twice as bright tonight and there were no clouds in the sky. “Especially those over there,” the Prince continued, “what constellation is that, Ada?” Thranduil followed the direction his son was pointing in. He downed the remainder of his wine before answering his son. “Anarríma.”

Legolas squinted his eyes in thought. “That name,” he mused, “I think I have heard it before. It sounds so familiar but I can’t quite place it.” Thranduil looked at his son. The older Legolas got, the more his hair turned from the silvery blond he got from his father, into the warm golden locks of his mother. He had her eyes too. A constant reminder to Thranduil that he had failed to protect his wife. She had been a formidable fighter, but ultimately not good enough. Thranduil turned to leave the balcony. “I expect you to attend your archery training tomorrow morning. Don’t stay up too late.”

“Good night, Ada.” Legolas stayed there, leaning against the wall staring up into the sky. Thranduil turned his gaze once more toward his son, who was deep in thought trying to remember. How could something be so familiar and yet so distant? Anarríma felt like destiny. Like comfort. And yet every time he reached for it, it was gone. Replaced by a seemingly infinite darkness he did not dare touch. Thranduil sighed. It broke his heart to see him like this. He had made the decision a long time ago. Try to forget, so Legolas would not miss his mother so much. Maybe he had been wrong? “Legolas,” he called out once more, “she was your mother.”

It came back to him then. Falling asleep in his mother’s arms, his head tucked under her chin. Chasing her through a meadow with flowers so bright it seemed unnatural, her laughter. And how much she loved him. Until the stars go dark and the ruins of Numenor rise from the seas.

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[scary-grace]

25 26 and 28 for Kairos for the writers' ask!!

25) Share your favorite line

It's mean to make me do this from a 565,000-word fic lol. But this is a piece of description I'm proud of from Chapter 12:

Thranduil wasn’t paying attention on the drive from town to Eryn Lasgalen. As a result, nothing on the road looks familiar. Not the trees, in full leaf and towering up against the blue sky; not the stone walls, mossed over and almost hidden in the grass along the edges of the road; not the curves where the trees arch up and over the road and the long straightaways bounded by fields on either side. The sun is high and bright. When Thranduil leans out the window and looks up, he can see birds swooping and wheeling in the sky, and all the while Bard sings.

26) Share your favorite detail

My favorite detail(s) are probably all the New Hampshire/New England things I've tried to wedge into the story. I've only been there once, in the summer, but it made a really strong impression, and I put a lot of research into the flora and fauna that would be present in the story, as well as the climate! I really wanted it to feel alive.

28) Write a new summary for the fic, but badly

Traumatized man, 38, is so desperate to become a local that he moves into the only place on the planet that's guaranteed to make his trauma worse.

Thank you for the ask!

send me a question + a fic

[tathrin]

For the WIP folder game I'd love to hear more about Coming Home Under the Shadows!

Oh no, I completely missed answering this one, I'm sorry! Thank you so much for asking though, I haven't touched that story in ages but I really do love it so!

Anyway, this was the original title for Coming Home Under the Trees before I realized that it didn't make much sense to reference the Shadow, given that the whole point is that the Shadow is now defeated and Mirkwood can start lightening again and become Eryn Lasgalen...but I never changed it on the file title lol.

I'm not sure if you've read that one or not, but short version: it's a largely plotless world-and-character-focused meander of Gimli and Legolas journeying to Mirkwood after the War of the Ring, and Gimli meeting Legolas's friends and family and discovering his Weird AF Forest for the first time and maybe discovering some Feelings along the way shhh.

...and I feel really REALLY bad about the fact that it's currently sitting on a cliff-hanger that was ABSOLUTELY NOT supposed to be a cliff-hanger, but I just can't get the next chapter sorted-out in my head to finish writing and post it, I'm so sorry to everybody who's been waiting for what comes next!

I promise Gimli is FINE.

[brannonlasgalen]

Would you ever print your fic? I know I'd buy it 😆 and it's waaaaaaaay better quality than the other fic prints out there like ye Olde 50 shades

This is the second ask I've gotten referencing that idea, and it is a lovely one. 🥰Unfortunately, printing/binding and selling my fic would be a blatant copyright violation, and Tolkien is DEFINITELY not in the public domain haha. So no joy, I'm afraid.

However, if you go on Ao3 there are both EPUB and PDF download options, which you could import into your eReader (Kindle, app, etc.) Then you can read The Healing of the Elvenking whenever and wherever you'd like! 🤗💚

[brannonlasgalen]

Oh, this is GORGEOUS. Can y'all IMAGINE The Healing of the Elvenking bound like this??😍😍😍

Skin Deep by Epilachna

Thranduil knows better than any that beauty is only skin deep, but what does he believe lies underneath? Early Third Age and beyond.

fic by Epilachna

772 pages / 214,677 words

Title Font: Aniron

Body Fonts: Pilgrim, Cirth Erebor, Better Grade

More on the process below the cut!

Such an epic fic! This is the first and only fic I've done from FF.net, but the commissioner was kind enough to help with pulling the text off the site (FF.net does not make it easy!) It's a big early Third Age fic, featuring Thranduil and an OC that takes on a life of her own as Thranduil's future wife. The sun & moon paper with the graphite duo book cloth is stunning imo, and I modeled the rest of the book after the original LOTR novels. The title page took inspiration from The Hobbit, but the rest was influenced heavily by the trilogy. I dug up the original fonts as well; Pilgrim for the body text, and Cirth Erebor for the title page writings. It also matches the original lettering, which was "The Lord of the Rings translated from the Red Book". This version reads, "Skin Deep translated from FF.Net"

The only difference with this typeset was the inclusion of Aniron, the movie's title font, for the title and drop caps (the original books did not have drop caps; they were not as fashionable during this era of publishing, especially for fantasy novels). Overall, I think it works as a wonderful homage to the source material - and fits Skin Deep right alongside Tolkein's works on a shelf. The commissioner also commissioned a copy for the author, and I do hope you enjoy holding your work in your hands!

[errruvande]

Find the word tag

Thank u again for the tag @lord-aldhelm 💓🥺

I don't know if you supposed to look it up in one fic or a few, I absolutely don't have all of these words in one fic, so it's gonna be a mix of my wips i guess?

Foolish:

This is from my other Alfred x f!Reader (Uhtred's sister yes!!) WIP that I've started back in 2022 (I know wild) but now want to finish.

"You came here with that silly smile of yours, Y/N, i know exactly what you're gonna do. You're gonna do something stupid, very stupid, foolish and dangerous."

Bright:

The next one is from my Elrond drabble for the drabble challenge.

A necklace was of gold, it looked like a ring that circles the neck, with one leaf on each end, from the right side of the ring a small droplet made of nothing else but the white bright gems of Lasgalen was hanging on a tiny twirled string of gold.

Peaceful:

This one is from Finan x Reader (possible multi chaptered) fic

"Lord, ya sure we need to swim?" Finan's voice shranked a little, while he was overlooking the peaceful surface of the river: black in the night, it looked like a bottomless pit that would lead you straight to Hell. He gulped. "Lord..."

Froze (aka freezing):

The last one is from my "Of Uhtred Ragnarsson and Young Odda" crack fic I started writing AGAIN back in 2022 (they both should have been posted as a part of TLK after-party but alas, my block came in earlier than I had a chance to finish them and now i'm gonna finish them all)

Alfred drilled him with exhausted stare, even the happiness of the victory over the Danes could not hide his weariness of being someone he never wanted to be, having the duty beyond his capabilities, as he once so deeply believed, so Uhtred failed to seat, freezing in the air before his butt had touched the wood of the chair.

Your words: gentle, fight, bed, warning

No pressure tags: @persephones-journey @ulfrsmal @emilyhufflepufftlk @holy3cake @ladyinred2248 @maybankwrites

[tkwrtnewsfeed]

Newsfeed #113 July 6, 2019 (6 Cermië)

YOUTUBE: Are You Ready for Us?

Yeah, not that it matters–we’re going to go there anyway. We are so busy now that we have to find some way to interact with our readers and answer their questions. Since there are two of us in two different countries and time zones, finessing will be involved (so will casting someone to speak for us when we’re busy and I’m not showcasing the sword fighting I use to choreograph battle scenes).

First off, The House of Durin @thehouseofdurin debuts in the Fall of 2019 so you’ll just have to deal with me and @tkwrtrilogy @tkwrtrilogy2 @tkwrtrilogy3 @trenarnolegolaslasgalen @oflordsandkingstkwrtbook @tkwrtsongofsevenrivers for a while (and all its other parts: @extendedtkwrtrilogyend @tkwrtrilogylasttale)

But wait! There’s MORE! (and, @staff this is a book that kids can read).

You’ll never guess who’s coming to town.

Okay, okay. Lindir isn’t the only “loremaster” in town. Even the Keepers have tales and boy, is it interesting! (If you’re reading Book I: The Epic of Eryn Galen @tkwrtrilogy3 right now, one of the first of them is lurking around in Doriath.

Just when 2019 couldn’t get any busier, 2020 is filling up like a rain barrel in a monsoon. Other than the occasional familial disagreement I have, I spend most of my time coming up with ways Thranduil can conquer the world. He already has LinkedIn mesmerized I have no idea how he pulled that one off. I mean he’s actually got “stans” on a business networking site! 😂🤣

Nothing surprises me anymore when it comes to Thranduil. Someone called him my magnum opus today so his opus will be returning in the Winter of 2019.

So, to recap, The Kingdom of the Woodland Realm Trilogy and The House of Durin will be on YouTube in 2020 (at some point) and you’ll get exclusive looks into Loremasters: Keepers of the Tales and updates on the other books like Book III: The Last Tale of Legolas Lasgalen, The Song of Seven Rivers and Of Lords & Kings.

So, if you were wondering where I’ve been for the past month, well, now you know.

Okay, no. I was writing. But Galadriel just fell in love with Celeborn in Book I: The Epic of Eryn Galen. I’m guessing at some point her harrowing tale of crossing the Helcaraxë will come to light. 😎

[brannonlasgalen]

Thranduil and Illyrea, anyone?

slow burn mutual pining but the burn is emotional and the fic is pwp. they smut it up while both wanting more and thinking the other one wants to be friends with benefits. having only this much of them is torture but not having them at all would be worse. each of them dreads the day their lover falls in love with someone else. both of them are so surprised to learn they've both been in love with the other the whole time

[iamjaynaemarie]

I asked for it and you got it. Coming Soon (details here: @tkwrtnewsfeed ) because every book series needs a place fans can talk to each other (access to cool stuff because it's more convenient for me).

No, really.

[tathrin]

Hi! You know I love your Mirkwood OCs. Can you say a little more about Eregmegil? Backstory? Any secrets? Why does he appear to have become a Gimli fan, after the life you've hinted at?

Oh OH! Eregmegil, yes, I would love to talk about him. I'm entirely normal about the elves of Mirkwood shhh. So, I'm guessing that this is largely in reference to the bit here where he carries Gimli through the trees so that he can get back quickly and find out whether or not Legolas is going to be okay after the orc-kidnapping, because there's no indication given in that story of why exactly it is Eregmegil should go out of his way like that for Gimli, yes?

So, yes: Eregmegil has very strong feelings about people being forcibly separated from somebody they care about, because his whole family was murdered in Doriath in the Second Kinslaying, and he has spent the rest of his life in Green/Mirkwood watching the folks around him lose people they love first in the Last Alliance and then in the long, slow defeat against the creeping Shadow of Dol Guldur. Including Angmeril, Thranduil's wife, who was one of the first elves they lost after the Last Alliance and whose departure was extremely traumatic for the whole forest for a host of reasons.

And it was Thranduil who carried little Eregmegil out of Doriath, having been the only one to hear him crying under his sister's corpse amidst the chaos, and having taken the time and risked his own life and that of his father to pull Eregmegil out and carry him out with them. Little Eregmegil latched-on real hard to Thranduil after that and has basically decided to devote his whole life to Keeping Thranduil Safe now.

But also he has a LOT of feeling about Protective Older Siblings, especially sisters, because his own died trying to protect him from the Fëanorians. So that's why he decides to pry himself away from Thranduil to go look after Rílaerloth for a little, because that's about the only impetus that could make him leave Thranduil when he's not 100% sure that Thranduil is going to be okay.

Hopefully all of those background details will get to come out in Coming Home Under The Trees, which is where I'm doing the bulk of my Mirkwood OC Building, but if you want an advance read of the Gimli-and-Eregmegil-bonding chapter that's going to eventually be included in that story...read on.

*also Eregmegil 100% has one of those oversized anime swords but he's so big no one can quite prove it.

NOTE that this is all rough first draft writing at this point.

Gimli stepped back, his palms raised in surrender. He shook his head at the hands that stretched back towards him. "Nay!" he gasped, his chest heaving in exertion. "Peace, you fiends! I must rest 'ere I fall off my feet."

The elves laughed and returned to their dancing, Legolas pausing just long enough to catch Gimli's eye and raise his brows in a silent question. Gimli nodded—he was fine, perfectly fine! He just needed a moment to breathe, for Mahal's sake!—and Legolas grinned and let himself be pulled back into the merry tumult under the trees.

Gimli brushed sweat-damp curls out of his face and looked around the clearing for a suitable seat. He did not want to go too far from the fire: the night pressed-in dark around the vibrant circle of elvish revelry and while Eryn Lasgalen was a more peaceful place than it had once been, his father's stories about Mirkwood lingered in his mind. Gimli was not keen to go wandering these woods with neither path nor elf to guide him back out of the shadows, not even now that those shadows at last were lightening to match the new name of their lands.

He spotted a likely log lying comfortably within the fire's glow, and Gimli made his way across the grass towards his pending seat with only two interruptions of elves trying to pull him back into the dance. He demurred politely and they shrugged and flitted off to their merriment without him.

The dwarf had to admit that Legolas had not been boasting when he had told Gimli that no one in all of Middle-earth hosted a revel quite as enthusiastically as the elves of Mirkwood. He had scoffed at first, expecting celebrations more in line with the gentle merrymaking he had experienced in Lórien, or the cozy nights of song in Rivendell. What he had found instead was carousing more akin to that which he'd experienced briefly in Rohan, yet somehow more raucous and unflagging. Mirkwood's elves cavorted as though they were going to war with sleep and sorrow both, and each twirl of their dance was a salvo in the battle against solemnity.

Gimli had kept up well, at first; dwarves are experienced revel-makers and they take their celebrations as seriously as they do their crafts or mining. But there comes a point in the night where dwarven celebrations turn from rowdy to melancholic, and in Mirkwood no such slower periods were allowed to dilute the tireless tumult of their festivities. The wine kept flowing, the songs kept rising, and the dancers kept spiraling around the fire as swift as arrows in the wind.

The problem, Gimli had finally determined, was that elves did not know how to appreciate sleep. It was because they did not partake of it properly, he thought, wandering as they did through half-waking dreams rather than sinking fully into slumber like reasonable folk. They did not know how to truly rest, so they simply kept going about their revels long past when all sensible peoples would have taken to their beds—aye, and then woke again without taking nearly enough time for slumber in between!

He was only a few feet away from the log where he intended to rest his feet when he realized that one end of it was already occupied; so still was the elf sitting upon it that, in the shadows at the edge of the clearing his green and brown garb blended almost completely with the foliage around him. Gimli was not sure if his presence would be welcomed or not—anyone sitting solitary at a bacchanal like this was doubtless seeking solitude rather than interruption by a near-stranger—but it would have been impolite to immediately turn aside, so he resolved himself to make a few minutes of polite conversation at least before taking himself off to some other seat and leaving the other to his chosen seclusion.

"Mae govanen," Gimli said with a respectful bow. "Forgive the intrusion," he continued when the elf—Gimli thought he recognized him as one of the guards he had met on his first arrival to the forest, although his head was muzzy enough that he knew it would take him several seconds to place the proper name—gave him a nod in response. He was still dressed in the light molded-leaf jerkin that served Eryn Lasgalen's warriors for armor and sported elegant bracers on his arms, but his sleeves beneath the armor were short enough to expose pale arms that were muscled almost thickly enough to belong to a Man although not, of course, to a Dwarf. His dark hair and white face were striking in the firelight—few of the elves of Eryn Lasgalen were quite so pale, and fewer of them sported such sharp contrast in their coloring—but it was the breadth of his shoulders and the stoutness of his arms that Gimli noticed the most. He was still uncomfortably slim to dwarven eyes, but less so than any other elf that Gimli had met. Had someone chopped his limbs down to a more reasonable length, he could almost have passed for a normal, if unhealthily skinny, person—at least if someone had loaned him a beard!

Realizing he was staring impolitely in his attempt to put a name to the face in front of him, Gimli offered a friendly smile and continued teasingly, "I do not wish to bring merriment with me to where it is unwanted, but if you will allot me a few moments in which to rest my tired feet from the revels you have chosen to eschew, I promise to keep my merry-making to a minimum in the interim and thus refrain from interrupting your repose."

He meant it as a jest, likely to segue into a bit of banter about dwarven endurance or perhaps commiseration about the other's likewise weary toes, but perhaps the elf could not see the grin on Gimli's face beneath his beard for he responded to his words as though they had been spoken in grim seriousness: "It is true, Lord Gimli, I am not much for merriment, but you are welcome to take your rest for as long as you like regardless of however much mirth you might feel or express; your presence brings no distress."

Gimli was taken aback but he hid it well; with another short bow he settled himself upon the lower curve of the fallen branch and stretched his legs out in front of him with a contented sigh.

"My thanks, Master Elf," he said, and finally the name came back to him: Eregmegil, the tallest of the elves of Eryn Lasgalen that Gimli had yet met, although that was not evident while he was seated thus. "You are a most generous host." Gimli glanced sidelong at the elf, but if Eregmegil's pale face evinced any particular feeling it was not distinct enough for Gimli to discern it in the dim shadows at the fire's edge.

As for Gimli, he smiled vaguely as a familiar laugh rose from Legolas's lips above above the nearby tumult, but he made no effort to spot the whirl of his golden hair twirling amid the rest of the cavorting elves. It was enough to know that his friend was happy; enough to sit here in peace and be happy himself.

The dwarf had abandoned his light jest at Eregmegil's words, being much more intrigued by this stoic elf than by his planned banter. "I hope you will not think it over-rude of a curious stranger if I ask why you have come to this revel, then, if you have no care for such things?" He flapped a hand in the general direction of the fire and the frolicking figures circling it. "Surely you would enjoy your evening more elsewhere, if you take no pleasure in such nonsensical cavorting?"

"My king is here, so I am here," Eregmegil said flatly.

Gimli was startled enough that he knew it showed on his face; only the fact that Eregmegil was not looking at him, but rather at the swirl of dancers at the fire, spared him the embarrassment of being seen to give such an impolite reaction. He could not help himself; it was a genuinely startling statement. The elves of Eryn Lasgallen were probably the least conscious of their king's rank as any people in all of Middle-earth, at least any that Gimli had yet met.

Dwarves were not given to standing on unnecessary ceremony themselves, but even at their most casual they were always conscious of their king's status as the king. These elves, by contrast, seemed to treat Thranduil more like a communal father-figure than as a ruler. Legolas and his sister did not even seem to qualify as royalty in the eyes of their people (no wonder, then, that Legolas had been more prone to introduce himself by his land than his lineage!) and while Rílaerloth was at least beneficiary of the respect afforded her as a commander of their warriors, Legolas—despite all of his heroic deeds—seemed to be viewed still as little more than a hapless child by many of his fellows, as though he were the whole forest's little brother rather than Rílaerloth's alone.

This behavior was strange to Gimli, and even after many days spent in company with Eryn Lasgalen's people he was still not used to their casual disregard for rank or ceremony—or so he had thought, until he was confronted by an example of someone acting more according to his expectations. Gimli was intrigued. Thranduil's people regularly showed affection for him, yes, but this was the first time he had seen any of them express the sort of dutiful devotion that beloved kings oft engendered in other lands.

He studied Eregmegil where he sat on the log beside him, but the pale elf's profile was as smooth and emotionless as if he had been carved from white granite.

"Think you that Thranduil requires a guard, then?" Gimli asked. "I thought the threats had been driven from your trees." He could not quite resist the urge to squint into the darkness past Eregemegil's shoulders—broad for an elf, Gimli noted, but still scrawny as a sapling by dwarven standards—although he was certain that the flickers of ominous motion he saw between the black silhouettes of the trees were only the result of his eyes and the flickering firelight playing tricks on him.

He was almost certain, anyway.

"Many of them have been," Eregmegil acknowledged. "The largest are all destroyed, and the rest have been hounded far from our halls, at any rate." His voice was no more coarse than any elf's but there was something to the tone of his words that made them seem more brusque than what Gimli was accustomed to hearing from his friend's people; a flatness that stood in stark contrast to the musical lilt that Gimli had begun to think was an innate part of elvish tongues.

"And yet you stay to guard him?" Gimli observed curiously. "That is admirable devotion."

For a long time Eregmegil stared at him in silence, so that Gimli began to think that he had offended the tall elf. He cast his mind about for a suitable apology, but before he could make one, Eregmegil broke their gaze to look back into the fire instead and said:

"He carried me out of Doriath."

"Doriath?" Gimli repeated, the half-formed phrasing of his repentance dashed instantly from his mind. He knew the name of Doraith, and recognition made his heart sink. "Ahh…"

"It was the Fëanoreans who brought tragedy to Doriath, in my case," Eregmegil said. The glance he slotted sideways at Gimli seemed to shine with a glimmer of momentary amusement at odds with his otherwise impassive mien before he faced forward again, stoic as ever.

Gimli nodded and tried to resist the urge to breathe a telltale sigh of relief.

"I was a child when they came, too small to fight," Eregmegil continued. His bland voice carried a bitter undercurrent. "My sister grabbed me and ran, but they pursued. She tried to fight, but she was no warrior. They dashed her knife from her hand and stabbed her with it. We fell, she curling low to protect me still. They stabbed her again with their long swords—stabbed us both as we lay there, but her body shielded mine and I was cut only along the arm." He gestured to the offending limb and Gimli was startled to see what seemed to be a long, thin scar along the pallid flesh. "She was cut deeper. I lay there, pinned beneath her like a caged bird, and watched as her fae left her eyes. I felt her grow cold in my mind and against my skin as we lingered there in the dark. She died, and I lay there trapped by her dead weight and my own sorrow."

Gimli's breath caught in his chest and strangled whatever insufficient words of sympathy he might have offered. Eregmegil did not seem to notice; he spoke matter-of-factly, although his eyes flashed with dark shadows in the firelight.

"It was Thranduil who pulled me from the ruin of her body," the tall elf continued calmly. "He heard my tears, somehow, even over the clash of battle that echoed through Menegroth's halls. Bleeding, his surviving father dangling half-dead at his side, his hands filled with the bloody swords of his living and dead father both, the Fëanoreans close on his heels, Thranduil still stopped and pulled me from my sister's arms. He set me on his shoulders and carried me, carried both Lord Oropher and myself, out from the ruin of Doriath; somehow still fighting to defend us all despite his burdens and his wounds and his own losses; carried me away from the darkness of our dying home and back into the light of the world beyond."

Gimli did not know if it was some trick of the firelight reflecting off of Eregmegil's grim grey eyes, or a result of the many droughts of heady elvish wine he had quaffed this night, but for a moment he could almost see it: the great halls of lost Menegroth, once a glorious testament to the marvels that could be crafted when elf and dwarf worked hand-in-hand, now incarnadined with blood and darkened with betrayal; its proud torches sputtering or gone out altogether, cut-down by enemy hands; too many fair elvish bodies strewn about the fastness of the Thousand Caves, cut down cruelly by blades of elvish make wielded by elvish hands; and one small child, sobbing into his sister's silent sleeve. Then from the shadows staggered Thranduil, his golden locks stained ruddy with blood, bare blades gleaming in both hands, one arm wrapped tight around his father's waist with Oropher's arm dangling limp across his shoulders, both elves bleeding heavily from many wounds; the elder nearly insensate and the younger wild-eyed and desperate, yet still in enough possession of his senses and his compassion to stop to help a fearful child…

(If the younger Thranduil in Gimli's imagination looked more like his son than like himself, well, what of it?)

He blinked, and the vision vanished, and there was once more only dark trees looming before his eyes. He cleared his throat, and managed to murmur something that expressed his sorrow for Eregmegil's losses without revealing the depths of his horror at such suffering at the hands of those who should have been kith or even kin rather than bloody-handed enemies; dwarves had fought amongst themselves in ages past too, of course, but somehow the level tone of Eregmegil's recitation made Gimli's skin crawl more than any tales of those regrettable conflicts had ever done.

(Maybe it was just that he kept picturing Legolas stumbling down those bloodstained halls rather than his father.)

Eregmegil accepted Gimli's admittedly less-than-eloquent sympathies with an impassive nod. Wishing to draw both his and the elf's thoughts to lighter places, Gimli cleared his throat again and asked, "So, ah, what was next? I confess I do not know the history of this forest as well as I should, but I believe that Thranduil and his father settled somewhere nearby before venturing forth to Greenwood, is that not so?"

"Yes," Eregmegil said. "We fled to Lindon. I was reunited with my surviving relations there. They made a home among the Green-elves and the other refugees who settled in Ossiriand." He was looking at the fire again rather than the dwarf, or perhaps at the dancers; his blank expression was as unreadable as his voice. "But Thranduil and Oropher were not content to live there among so many Noldor, not after the fall of Menegroth. Not after the Kinslaying. And nor was I. They soon left to go east, to find the Silvan elves who still lived there—here," he amended, tilting one palm up to gesture at the forest around them.

There should have been more bitterness in Eregmegil's voice, Gimli thought; bitterness or scorn or something. This cool, too-calm recital made him shiver despite the warmth of the fire.

"Oropher hoped to find somewhere to live in better ways, more elvish ways; the ways in which our people lived before the Valar meddled and the Enemy made war upon us," the elf continued in his passionless way. "My relatives would not leave the new home they sought to craft in Ossiriand, but I already knew then that my place would henceforth be ever at Thranduil's side. I joined with the handful of other Sindar who chose to leave Lindon and seek-out the elves who had never joined the pilgrimage of the Valar; who had never been coaxed to abandon their native lands or customs."

"Were you not still a child?" Gimli asked, surprised. He was no expert on elvish history, of course, but he had been curious enough about Legolas's homeland to question his friend about its founding, and he had thought that he had a better sense of the timeline than this. Had not Oropher left Ossiriand within only a few years? Perhaps Eregmegil had simply been older than Gimli had pictured him in the story of Doriath's destruction; he might have been only a little shy of his majority, like Gimli himself had been when his father had joined Thorin's expedition to Mirkwood all those years ago: Old enough to feel that he was being left behind, but still seen as a child in his people's eyes.

Eregmegil nodded, however. "A child, yes, but not a fool," he said in a dry voice. "I did not ask for permission, and so my relations could not deny me. I left with my lord and came to Greenwood." He looked around at the tall, dark trees that rose into the black night sky far overhead, beyond the heavy leaves, and his grey eyes were as flat as the dullest stone that Gimli had ever carved. He did not smile at the trees. Had Gimli seen any elf in this forest fail to smile at their trees, even the most shadowed and twisted of them? And these trees were bright and merry in comparison to many of their fellows, as though they too shared in the delight of the elves for their firelit revelry.

"And have you been here ever since?" the dwarf asked carefully. "Or are you newly-returned, now that the Shadow has lifted?"

"I left these woods only once, to follow my lord to war in Mordor," Eregmegil replied. "It would take more than Shadow in the trees to tear me from his side.  Wherever Thranduil goes I will follow him, even unto the breaking of the world and yet beyond."

Gimli could not help but shiver at the weight of those words. There may have been no oath sworn—or then again there may have been, in days long ago before Gimli's father's father was born to hear it—but there was a surety to Eregmegil's voice that was as unshakable as any vow. He meant what he spoke with every fiber of his elvish fae, and he would damn himself to the Void before he forsook that intent.

"And yes," Eregmegil continued, and once again there seemed to be the faintest flicker of amusement across his grim lips, gone so fast that Gimli could not be sure he had not imagined it, "also to these merry revels that you seem to find so trying."

"I do not find them trying in the least," Gimli protested. "I quite enjoy them, in fact—I am simply tired!" He shifted on the log and scowled petulant. "Well and after all, I am much shorter than the other dancers," the dwarf added, feeling unaccountably as though he needed to justify himself. "I must work twice as hard as them to keep-up with the pace of their cavorting. No wonder I tire before the rest!" he blustered, despite knowing very well that the heart of the problem was not the speed of the dance nor the unseemly length of elvish legs, but rather the fact that elves simply had no proper appreciation for the merits of slumber, strange creatures that they were. Gimli was a stout and hearty dwarf, and justly proud of his strength and endurance; he was simply mortal, that was all, and as such he needed to sometimes refresh himself in ways that these flibbertigibbet elves would never comprehend.

"I stand corrected," Eregmegil murmured, and Gimli was certain this time that he detected a flicker of genuine amusement ghosting briefly across the elf's thin lips.

He harrumphed a grudging acknowledgement of Eregmegil's words and propped his chin in his hands, the better to watch the dancing. His eyes slowly drifted out of focus and he sank into something that was halfway to a doze, content to let his thoughts float as aimlessly and amiably as the blurry figures of the cavorting elves in front of him. As tiring as elvish dancing could be for a mortal participant, there was something restful about watching them too. 

"Do not mistake me, Master Dwarf," Eregmegil said after a while, shaking Gimli from his reverie.  "I do not dislike the revels of my people." Eregmegil nodded at the fire, and the whirling shapes of the other elves cavorting wildly around it, their lithe forms coming slowly back into focus as Gimli blinked. "I simply prefer to enjoy them from the edges here, where I can find pleasure in their delight without feeling compelled to manifest any of my own."

Eregmegil's gaze slanted back to Gimli, and now the dwarf could see a hollow darkness behind the mirror-like grey eyes that fixed so coolly upon his own. Had it been there all along, unnoticed, or had speaking of the past brought the vacuous shadows to the forefront? Gimli could not say, but no more could he unsee them now. "Whatever joy I once found in dance or in song went out of this world when my sister's spirit fled to the Halls of Mandos," Eregmegil continued flatly. "But it pleases me to see my people's joy, and in this bitter world that is comfort enough for me."

In the months since Legolas first heard the gulls at Pelargir, Gimli had developed a habit of skirting all mention of the Sea. It was thus not difficult for him to restrain the urge to ask why Eregmegil had not sought the healing of the Undying Lands that so many of his people sailed away to find when their spirits fell to the burden of such unendurable grief. He did not need to ask; he already knew the answer. Eregmegil surely knew as well as any elf—and far better than any dwarf, even one named elvellon—that the wounds of his soul could be staunched in fair and distant Valinor. But leaving would mean leaving his king's side, which would be the most grievous wound of all. And so he stayed, and carried the shadow of his losses with him, and endured.

Not for the first time, Gimli thought that the unmeasured lives of the elves was far from the enviable gift that so many mortals seemed to think them. If they had lived solely in joy, then their years unending might be something to covet—but the more time Gimli spent with elves, the more tragedy and sorrow he saw surrounding them. He had never brooded on the inevitability of Mahal's Peace the way so many Men repeatedly shied-away from their own inevitable end, had never feared the inevitability of his own ending; but sitting here at the edge of the firelight with Eregmegil, Gimli thought that rather than simply inevitable, there might be a certain comfort in the knowledge that one day an end would come to him. There would never be a day when he sat, two Ages of the world removed from the deaths of his kin, separated from the joy of his people by the weight of his own grief.

A flash of gold in the firelight caught Gimli's eye and he smiled instinctively at the sight of Legolas whirling like a wild thing in his friends' arms. The dwarf's tired feet ached just from looking at the roister of the dance, but like Eregmegil he was pleased enough simply to watch the unflagging joy of those who spun.

Legolas had described Mirkwood revels as though they were weapons against the darkness that hung over their forests, and Gimli had thought he had understood what his friend meant before, but he realized that it was only now, sitting beside grim and grieving Eregmegil, that he truly grasped the meaning of this defiant cheer.

The elves of Mirkwood—or Greenwood, or Eryn Lasgalen, or whatever else one chose to call this forest; the shadows that had defined it for so long hung over it still, even as they finally began to lessen, whatever name it bore—they were not less cognizant of elvish sorrows than their grander kin; in some ways perhaps they knew those sorrows better, for there was nothing to insulate the simple elves of Mirkwood from their weight, nothing but their own deliberate scorn for the sadness that strove to claim them.

The world wished for them to sigh in sadness? Then they would sing, sing until their voices gave out and dance until their shoes were worn clean through and the very trees around them reverberated with the echoes of their weaponized joy.

[brannonlasgalen]

Your writing is magnificent. I wish I could print the healing of the elven king into a book of my own and read it constantly.

Wow, thank you Nonnyelf! What a lovely compliment. 🥰🥰🥰