of roots and where they lie by hanneswrites

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of eryn galen

This chapter takes place after a time-skip and would begin some time after Thranduil moved his people away from Aman Lanc and restablished in the Mountains of Mirkwood.

Thranduil closes his eyes for a moment, feeling the exhaustion of the day sink into his bones, and he takes a long sip of his wine. He’s finally made it back to his chambers after a long day of council meetings and appeasing visiting dignitaries, all of whom seem to be focused in on the ever-present problem of the darkness weaving its way through the forests of Eryn Galen. 

 

It consumed Amon Lanc faster than Thranduil could handle - a nice reminder, in the wake of his return from war, that despite how much he prepares, how much of himself he puts forth to keep the darkness at bay - that there are simply some things he  cannot do, and that all things inevitably fall to ruin in time.

 

He maintains the barrier around his new halls now, carved into the mountains of the northern forests. Smaller than Amon Lanc and thus more manageable. His people have consolidated closer and closer to the palace in the last few years and that makes things easier for him - but it is still not ideal. 

 

When he is alone like this, he thinks often of how Melian might have felt all those years ago. Did this same burden of protection sit so heavily upon her shoulders as it does his? Did it consume her? Drain her? As it does him? Beleriand was so much more dangerous than the threats currently sitting at Thranduil’s borders. He regrets, now, not having asked her about it. And yet - as he thinks of Amon Lanc, of the grief of losing everything his father had built and how even in the wake of that grief, he cannot imagine leaving all of them - his friends, his family, his people - to face the coming darkness alone. Amon Lanc may have been lost, but they, for the most part, are safe. He can feel the burden of the realm upon him as a tangible weight, sitting in his chest and chilling his very core. He finds himself chilled even in the dead of summer and no amount of fire or coverlets or robes have been able to warm him. 

 

Thranduil frowns, pulled out of his reverie by the unmistakable sound of Celeborn’s footsteps in the hallway outside of his chambers. Whether he’s coming to counsel him or console him, it matters not. He is in no mood for guests, least of all guests who tend to hesitantly walk the line between old friend and ‘lord of neighboring lands who wants to ensure all of their trade agreements are intact’.

 

He lets Celeborn get a bit closer to the doors of his study, and then he reluctantly stands, makes his way over to the dark woven-oak door, and places his hand square in the middle of it, feeling the unpolished grain beneath his palm. He lets out a long, low whistle. An old melody of wandering and muddled purpose tumbles from his lips like a soft prayer, and he regrets it almost immediately. 

 

A wave of fatigue runs through him and leaves him breathless as he finishes the last line of the song. There is a chill permeating through his fingers despite the warm summer air around him, a cold he knows will not fade for a while yet. He places his forehead against the door and waits, closing his eyes and hoping that Celeborn will continue on down the hall, none the wiser that Thranduil’s chamber door has suddenly disappeared from outside view. His breath steels in his lungs for a long moment as he hears Celeborn right outside the door, and then - 

 

The footsteps continue on down the hallway. Thranduil lets out a long breath. His fingers ache when he places them gently in his pockets, trying in vain to warm them under the thick velvet of his robes. Briefly, he contemplates sending for supplies to start a fire in his hearth, but thinks better of it. 

 

He needs to rest. And yet, as he settles down on his bed and wraps himself in his thick woolen comforter, he feels very distinctly restless. His mattress holds no solace for him, nor do the expanse of pillows lining his headboard. He shifts, his fingers ache, his lungs ache, he is consumed with a weariness that will not fade even as he sinks further into what should be the comfort of his bed, the comfort of home.   

 

I’ve been inside for too long, Thranduil thinks, as he stares at the carved stone of his ceiling. The only light that flickers in his chambers is a golden lamp on his bedside table. It is only early evening now, he knows. Outside, the mid-summer sun will be setting in just an hour or two, and when he closes his eyes he can picture the soft auburn of it dancing among the branches of the forest. 

 

He misses the open chambers he had in Amon Lanc. They were smaller than the ones he built for himself here, in these underground caverns that pay only small homage to the great halls of his youth. But they were magnificent all the same - a small balcony overlooking the southern forest with tall crystalline windows to let the morning light in framing either side of it. He  spent decades cultivating a veritable garden of different plants and saplings - his favorite being a variety of creeping moonseed that sprawled across the outer edges of his chambers. The thrushes and nightingales of the southern forest would visit him often, perching upon the branches of his saplings to sing and play amongst the leaves. He would speak to them often and they would bring him news from the outer reaches of the realm. And then? And then --

 

Thranduil squeezes his eyes shut. 

 

Breathe in. 

 

Breathe out. 

 

A matter of necessity, he reminds himself, a matter of safety. 

 

For himself, for his people, for his family.  

 

Breathe in. 

 

And out. 

 

Perhaps tomorrow he can steal away after lunch and head out into the forest for a while. It really has been too long since he’s ventured beyond the walls of the palace. A bit of fresh air and sunlight will do him some good. Being down here for so long has made him feel disconnected and at odds with himself. 

 

He lets his shoulders relax, sinking deeper into the covers and letting out a long sigh of relief as the warmth begins to return to his fingertips. At this point he’s so desperately exhausted that it takes him only a moment to start to drift off to sleep.

 

His eyes have been closed for barely a minute when a voice calls out to him from the hallway. 

 

“Your Majesty?” Galion’s voice sounds alarmed enough to pull Thranduil from bed. He quickly makes his way over to the door, but hesitates just as he’s about to turn the door handle and break the illusion keeping Galion from finding his chambers. He needs to rest, surely this can at least wait a little while - 

 

“My King, I know you likely don’t want to be disturbed at the moment, but your son has gone missing from his chambers, and we cannot find him anywhere in the palace,” Galion says, voice wavering just the slightest bit through the walls, and Thranduil’s blood runs cold.  

 

It takes Thranduil only a few minutes to find himself walking frantically through the trees, just as the sun begins to set upon the horizon, casting long shadows along his path as he heads further from the walled protection of his halls. The growing darkness has not reached this part of the forest yet, he knows, but that does not mean that dangerous and unexpected things do not linger here - a thought present at the forefront of his mind as he scans the brush and branches for his son. 

 

He trusts the forest to guide him, as it often does, to exactly where he needs to be. And he is not disappointed.  

 

North, it calls to him, and he follows. Branches shudder as he passes, and he feels his own worry reflected in the atmosphere around him. The song of the forest chatters in the mid-summer air, a thousand quiet voices coalescing into one. This way, it says. He stumbles forward into the brush, off the well-beaten path, and the roots and leaves part for him, guiding him further onward. 

 

Further into the forest, a nightingale calls overhead, and he whistles high in answer. It swoops down to greet him, flapping its wings excitedly as it begins to sing, beckoning him to trust its path. He does, though he struggles to keep up as it weaves quickly through the trees. 

 

In a short time, he finds himself stumbling through the underbrush and into a part of the forest he hasn’t had a chance to visit in a long while - a large domain of old, soft needled pines. This part of the forest has always been Legolas’s favorite. When he was much younger they would travel up here and he would play amongst the fallen expanse of soft white pine needles. Thranuil would help him collect pine nuts to roast over the evening fire and they would camp out under the stars. But that was before - when Amon Lanc still held strong, when the prospect of being alone in the forest at night wasa welcome and magical experience he was excited to share with his son, when he wasn’t so tired.   

 

The nightingale’s song pitches high as it circles one of the large pines once, then twice, before diving back down to where Thranduil is standing. He reaches out a hand and it perches gingerly on his fingers. 

 

“Thank you,” Thranduil breathes, and the nightingale eagerly chirps back at him before taking off once more. 

 

Legolas sits, hidden thoroughly among the branches of the pine tree the nightingale  led him to, leaning against the trunk with his knees pulled up to his chest and his head buried in his arms. He is still small enough that the softwood branch barely bows beneath his weight. 

 

“Legolas?” Thranduil says, softly placing a hand upon the tree bark. Thranduil can hear its whisper clear in his mind. 

 

Safe, the old pine breathes and sways in the late evening wind, Safe, it repeats. And Thranduil closes his eyes for a moment, all of the uneasy panic that had built up inside of him leaving his body in a long, slow exhale. 

 

Thranduil wraps a hand around one of the lower-hanging branches and hoists himself up into the canopy, footwork sure and true as he finds himself climbing nearly halfway up the tree to reach his son. He perches on a branch close to the one Legolas is sitting on and waits a few moments.  

 

“Little Leaf?” Thranduil starts again, his voice softer now, “Are you alright?” 

 

Legolas tilts his head slightly to the side, peering out from his arms with one eye, “I’m fine.” He makes no move to continue, and Thranduil does not push him. The silence stretches on between them and the sun sinks lower on the western horizon. 

 

Thranduil resigns himself to a long walk back in the dark and curses himself for not having enough foresight to bring a lantern with him. He glances down at his hands, feeling the weak spark of his fëa beneath his fingertips and wonders absently if he’ll have enough in him to at least light a spark to guide their way. 

 

“You’re staring at your hands again,” Legolas says, almost too quiet for him to hear. He’s turned to face him more now, and Thranduil can see the puffiness around his eyes and mottled redness spread across his cheeks. He’s been crying. Thranduil’s heart lurches and his hands ache to reach out to his son, to soothe, to wipe away what’s left of his tears and shelter him until they can get home. A fool’s errand, he knows. Legolas is too old now to be comforted by coddling. 

 

Legolas lets out a huff and slowly unfurls himself, looking up into the branches overhead. 

 

“ Ada,”

 

“Legolas,”

 

They both start at the same time, cutting each other off. Legolas grits his teeth. They stall for another long while. 

 

“I’ve been asking Galion if I could see you all day,” Legolas says, and Thranduil can tell that’s not originally what he’d been intending to say, “I just--” He cuts himself off, looking down at his hands.

 

Thranduil does reach out this time, settling a steady hand on his son’s shoulder in a gesture he hopes is comforting in some way. Legolas meets his eyes, a small, sad smile crossing his face, and Thranduil can feel in an instant everything his son is trying to tell him - everything he’s feeling. A familiar warmth and love sit just at the surface, but delving deeper in he finds a pervading sense of loss, of loneliness, that echoes through his thoughts like a stone tossed into an empty wellspring. Thranduil’s hand tightens on Legolas’s shoulder. He recognizes, very distinctly, that this sense of loss is directed toward him, and that same wayward thought from before springs back into his mind - of just how long it has been since they’ve been in this part of the forest last. Of just how long it has been since he’s spent any real time with his son.

 

Thranduil pulls back, eyebrows knit together in concern. Legolas shifts across from him, hands disappearing into his pockets for a moment before he pulls out a green linen pouch. It rustles softly as Legolas holds it out to him and he takes it, gently unwrapping the leather tie at the top to reveal a small harvest of pine nuts.   

 

Thranduil ties the bag shut after a few moments and tucks it safely into his pocket. He feels a comforting wave of affection wash over him and for the first time in a long while he feels well and truly warm .

 

As soon as Legolas’s feet hit the ground Thranduil pulls him into a tight hug and tries desperately to mirror that warmth and convey, at least in some small capacity, just how loved Legolas is.

 

“Home?” Legolas asks, and Thranduil nods. 

 

 

Their journey back to the palace is relatively uneventful - the soft glow of the nearly full moon allows them just enough light on the larger pathways through the forest to navigate safely. Thranduil walks Legolas back to his room and stays with him a while - they talk about many things, from how Legolas is doing in his lessons as of late to how he feels about his new set of rooms and how his friends are faring since the move from Amon Lanc. Legolas starts to drift off after a while, settling back into his pillows and struggling to keep his eyes open. 

 

“Can we,” Legolas starts, but pauses for a long moment before continuing, “Can we go out to the pine forest again, sometime?”     

 

Thranduil gives him a small smile and nods.   

 

“Soon,” Thranduil says, tucking the covers around him. He smooths down Legolas’s hair and bends down to press a soft kiss to his forehead. “Soon, I promise.” 

 

Thranduil finds his way back to his chambers and pours himself another glass of wine. He sits on the chaise spread out before his hearth and takes a long sip before leaning back and closing his eyes. The wine glass twirls in between his fingertips and he thinks of many things - the past, the present, the future. The fate he was tossed into so many years ago, the potential laid out before him now. And he thinks, most of all, about whether or not Legolas is old enough now to start attending council meetings. 

 

He takes another sip of wine, lets his body relax into the cushions of the chaise, and listens to the faint, comforting music of the forest spread out around him. 

 

Tomorrow, he tells himself, tomorrow.

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