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Title: King of Ashes
Author: Evandar
Fandom: The Hobbit/Lord of the Rings
Rating: T
Genre: Angst
Pairing: Mentions of Thranduil/Orcs
Warnings: References to rape, mental illness (depression), child neglect, and MPreg
Disclaimer: I do not own The Hobbit or The Lord of the Rings and I am making no profit from this story.
Summary: Thranduil receives news of the quest. He doesn't take it well.
AN: Finally! The Thranduil-centric sequel to Child of Ruin and Hope, Painless, and In the Garden. Chronologically, it takes place around the same time as Painless. There's also a blink-and-you'll-miss-it reference to Kith and Kin, which wasn't meant to be in the same 'verse as this, but whatever.
He watches as his soldiers filter across the bridge towards his throne, and counts their heads even as he notes the tension between them. They are, like most of his people, Silvan Elves – russet-haired and long-eared. He leans forward in his seat and counts once more, heads of brown and red, and realises that there is one missing. There is no gold amongst their number.
His son is gone.
Something cold lodges in his stomach. He had sent Legolas to Imladris in a fit of pique, embarrassed at the failure – yet again – of his guards to keep prisoners behind lock and key. There had been no wily Hobbit to aid the creature’s escape; it had been mercy that had set it loose on the world.
Thranduil is well acquainted with mercy and its consequences. That doesn’t mean he’s at all appreciative at having to explain those consequences to Lord Elrond and the Dunedain.
He waits until they have all gathered in front of him before he speaks. Not one of them can seem to look at him, and the cold in his stomach spreads.
“Where is Legolas?” he asks.
It is Elros who steps forward to explain, and only then when he has seen that none of his fellows have the courage to. He shifts from foot to foot, much like he had sixty years ago when his negligence had led to the escape of Oakenshield and his Company. It’s a sight that doesn’t fill Thranduil with confidence.
“My King,” he says, faltering and glancing at the others as if they have betrayed him. “There was a Council in Imladris. The One Ring had been discovered and, ah.”
Thranduil is standing. He didn’t notice rising to his feet, but he has done so. “Go on,” he says.
“Prince Legolas has joined a quest to Mordor, my King, so that the Ring may be destroyed and its evil ended.”
Is this what it would feel like to drown? Thranduil reaches out a hand to steady himself on his throne. Elros’ words keep repeating in his head – Legolas, Mordor, destroyed, quest – and he cannot breathe. He cannot breathe.
A hand touches his arm and he permits himself to be guided back into his seat before he jerks away from the gentle touch. He is never touched. Never. “Leave,” he gasps out, and he doesn’t care enough to look to see if they do.
His vision is turning grey. Legolas is gone.
…
There is a stiffness in his ribs when he returns to himself. He has been draped over the arm of his throne for what must have been hours. His crown lies at its foot, dislodged from his hair; he hadn’t heard it fall. He straightens, wincing, and runs his fingers through his hair. His eyes ache, and his heart. The grey that had consumed him is still there, filling his head with thoughts of shadow.
He has seen Mordor, long ago. His hand drifts absently to the flat plains of his stomach, and he remembers a time when it was swollen; when he was filled with terror by what had been planted there; had dreaded every kick and movement that reminded him his child was alive. Legolas was conceived in Mordor – in a camp on the slopes of its dread mountains. His father, whichever Orc it had been, had been slain there; Thranduil’s father had been slain there, and the body of Oropher Caradhuilion now lies drowned beneath the Emyn Muil.
Legolas has gone there.
…
Ages of the world have passed since the evil of Sauron first touched his life, and yet Thranduil can still remember him as he was on the battlefield, the War of Wrath raging around him; his eyes blazing with fire and his golden hair dancing as he whirled, weaving enchantments even as his mace flashed through the air.
Thranduil had – along with some others – stayed behind when Doriath had fallen. He had wanted revenge and adventure and ruin; he had received ruin. Ancalagon the Black, fiercest of the dragons, had laid waste to his company before the eagles had flung him back into Thangorodrim, their talons ripping ribbons from his armoured hide. He had seen Sauron then, half- dazed with pain as his armour smoked and his flesh and hair sizzled; Morgoth’s lieutenant had been screaming, with laughter or grief, Thranduil did not know.
He cannot know even now, but he thinks he might feel now what Sauron did then.
…
He drifts in and out of clouds of grey. He sits through reports without hearing, and wanders the halls without seeing. More than once he comes back to himself outside of Legolas’ door. He hasn’t been inside since his son was an Elfling; before…before, when Legolas was small and sweet and Thranduil could pretend he wasn’t what he was.
He awakes to himself with his hand on the knob, but never does he turn it. He cannot.
He turns instead to his own chambers, and to a box of treasures from long ago. Scraps of fabric and a lock of pale, braided hair. They are fragile now, and their scent long faded; he can no longer pick them up and run them through his fingers, nor press them to his nose and inhale the sweet, baby smell of his child. Still, he draws comfort from them – a reminder that there was a child, one who laughed and smiled and wove crowns of flowers with clumsy fingers.
He can’t remember the last time he heard Legolas laugh. Every night, he tries to remember; he knows it happened, but when? He brushes his fingertips against crumbling silks and tries to remember what it sounded like.
He remembers Sauron and his fury better than he does his own child, and his child is lost to him now.
…
In his box of treasures, there is a small pouch. It is the only part of it he can touch, and he rarely does so. It is a habit of Elves keep reminders of their children’s youth, despite the fact that their memories are as eternal as their bodies. The pouch holds teeth, pearly-white and still razor sharp, and Thranduil pours them slowly out onto his hand to count them.
He thinks his son must have a frightening smile, and yet he cannot remember what it looks like.
He digs a tiny incisor into the pad of his thumb and he watches the blood well up. Legolas could so easily have harmed him, and yet Thranduil knows he has not. He has been witness to long years of self-control and restraint, to the creation of a loyal soldier where there should have been a prince. He has watched shadows grow until he can no longer recall the light that came before them.
…
It is Elros who manages to break through the fog. He stands before Thranduil’s throne and refuses to move until Thranduil has listened and heard and understood what he has to say.
There is an army of Orcs encamped at the base of Erebor. The men of Dale dither and fret over their decisions; their King is old and their council too bloody minded to choose one thing over another. It is up to the Elves, up to Thranduil, to act.
Thranduil holds no love for Dwarves. He knows them to be stubborn and treacherous creatures who covet what they should not. It was the Dwarves who killed King Thingol and broke the heart of Melian – who in doing so began the Sack of Doriath and for that he can never forgive them – and yet his hatred is not strong enough to abandon them to the armies of Sauron.
Should Erebor fall, then so will Dale and – after a time – Mirkwood itself. His world will burn and his people will die. Sauron will strip him of his woodland realm and crown him King of Ashes. It is only in an alliance that a hope of victory lingers.
An alliance and a quest to the South. His son and eight others are fighting their way into the heart of Mordor itself, hoping against all hope to end this. Thranduil can do no less than that. He had sworn to himself and to the babe he had borne that Legolas would be good; that he wouldn’t fall to the depravity of the creature that sired him, and that he would become an Elf of whom Thranduil – and all of Lasgalen – could be proud. He has become so, despite everything, and Thranduil knows that it is his turn.
“We go to war,” he says, and the look of relief on Elros’ face is disturbing in its intensity. Had he truly been that worried? “Tell the guard,” Thranduil continues. “Muster our forces. The Enemy shall find no weakness in the North.”
…
He dares, this time, to open the door.
His son’s chambers look hardly lived in. There are few decorations beyond those that had been carved onto the walls when the palace was built and what possessions litter the bedside table and dresser are small and neatly arranged. Here, an interestingly shaped stone; there, a half-finished attempt at carving. Thranduil had never even known Legolas was interested in such things, but it shows promise for an unfinished piece.
There is a book on healing, another thing Thranduil had never known about, and when he flips it open at the marked page, he discovers that his son had been learning how to dress his own wounds. Legolas, it seems, has not been trusting the healers to do their jobs.
And why would he? Nausea tangles in Thranduil’s belly, cold and heavy, and he remembers - remembers the confused look on Legolas’ face and the worry of the healers and the realisation that his son was still only half an Elf, no matter what he looked like. He remembers probing Legolas’ ankle and feeling the bones shift and grate together beneath his skin, feeling the heat of the swelling, and seeing no reaction to the pain.
He closes the book, abandons it to its place on the dresser and turns away, pressing his hand to his belly and fighting the urge to scream. He can remember fear skittering down his spine; he can remember turning away; he can remember standing outside Legolas’ door at night with a book of tales under his arm but without the courage to enter.
He can’t remember what Legolas looks like when he laughs and now he is gone and may never return. Thranduil snatches up one of Legolas’ pillows and breathes deep the soft scent of his son’s hair so that he doesn’t have to think of the lump rising in his throat and the prickling of his eyes. He hasn’t wept for an Age of Arda and has no wish to start, but…but.
Legolas is gone, and without him the world is dust and ashes.
Author: Evandar
Fandom: The Hobbit/Lord of the Rings
Rating: T
Genre: Angst
Pairing: Mentions of Thranduil/Orcs
Warnings: References to rape, mental illness (depression), child neglect, and MPreg
Disclaimer: I do not own The Hobbit or The Lord of the Rings and I am making no profit from this story.
Summary: Thranduil receives news of the quest. He doesn't take it well.
AN: Finally! The Thranduil-centric sequel to Child of Ruin and Hope, Painless, and In the Garden. Chronologically, it takes place around the same time as Painless. There's also a blink-and-you'll-miss-it reference to Kith and Kin, which wasn't meant to be in the same 'verse as this, but whatever.
He watches as his soldiers filter across the bridge towards his throne, and counts their heads even as he notes the tension between them. They are, like most of his people, Silvan Elves – russet-haired and long-eared. He leans forward in his seat and counts once more, heads of brown and red, and realises that there is one missing. There is no gold amongst their number.
His son is gone.
Something cold lodges in his stomach. He had sent Legolas to Imladris in a fit of pique, embarrassed at the failure – yet again – of his guards to keep prisoners behind lock and key. There had been no wily Hobbit to aid the creature’s escape; it had been mercy that had set it loose on the world.
Thranduil is well acquainted with mercy and its consequences. That doesn’t mean he’s at all appreciative at having to explain those consequences to Lord Elrond and the Dunedain.
He waits until they have all gathered in front of him before he speaks. Not one of them can seem to look at him, and the cold in his stomach spreads.
“Where is Legolas?” he asks.
It is Elros who steps forward to explain, and only then when he has seen that none of his fellows have the courage to. He shifts from foot to foot, much like he had sixty years ago when his negligence had led to the escape of Oakenshield and his Company. It’s a sight that doesn’t fill Thranduil with confidence.
“My King,” he says, faltering and glancing at the others as if they have betrayed him. “There was a Council in Imladris. The One Ring had been discovered and, ah.”
Thranduil is standing. He didn’t notice rising to his feet, but he has done so. “Go on,” he says.
“Prince Legolas has joined a quest to Mordor, my King, so that the Ring may be destroyed and its evil ended.”
Is this what it would feel like to drown? Thranduil reaches out a hand to steady himself on his throne. Elros’ words keep repeating in his head – Legolas, Mordor, destroyed, quest – and he cannot breathe. He cannot breathe.
A hand touches his arm and he permits himself to be guided back into his seat before he jerks away from the gentle touch. He is never touched. Never. “Leave,” he gasps out, and he doesn’t care enough to look to see if they do.
His vision is turning grey. Legolas is gone.
…
There is a stiffness in his ribs when he returns to himself. He has been draped over the arm of his throne for what must have been hours. His crown lies at its foot, dislodged from his hair; he hadn’t heard it fall. He straightens, wincing, and runs his fingers through his hair. His eyes ache, and his heart. The grey that had consumed him is still there, filling his head with thoughts of shadow.
He has seen Mordor, long ago. His hand drifts absently to the flat plains of his stomach, and he remembers a time when it was swollen; when he was filled with terror by what had been planted there; had dreaded every kick and movement that reminded him his child was alive. Legolas was conceived in Mordor – in a camp on the slopes of its dread mountains. His father, whichever Orc it had been, had been slain there; Thranduil’s father had been slain there, and the body of Oropher Caradhuilion now lies drowned beneath the Emyn Muil.
Legolas has gone there.
…
Ages of the world have passed since the evil of Sauron first touched his life, and yet Thranduil can still remember him as he was on the battlefield, the War of Wrath raging around him; his eyes blazing with fire and his golden hair dancing as he whirled, weaving enchantments even as his mace flashed through the air.
Thranduil had – along with some others – stayed behind when Doriath had fallen. He had wanted revenge and adventure and ruin; he had received ruin. Ancalagon the Black, fiercest of the dragons, had laid waste to his company before the eagles had flung him back into Thangorodrim, their talons ripping ribbons from his armoured hide. He had seen Sauron then, half- dazed with pain as his armour smoked and his flesh and hair sizzled; Morgoth’s lieutenant had been screaming, with laughter or grief, Thranduil did not know.
He cannot know even now, but he thinks he might feel now what Sauron did then.
…
He drifts in and out of clouds of grey. He sits through reports without hearing, and wanders the halls without seeing. More than once he comes back to himself outside of Legolas’ door. He hasn’t been inside since his son was an Elfling; before…before, when Legolas was small and sweet and Thranduil could pretend he wasn’t what he was.
He awakes to himself with his hand on the knob, but never does he turn it. He cannot.
He turns instead to his own chambers, and to a box of treasures from long ago. Scraps of fabric and a lock of pale, braided hair. They are fragile now, and their scent long faded; he can no longer pick them up and run them through his fingers, nor press them to his nose and inhale the sweet, baby smell of his child. Still, he draws comfort from them – a reminder that there was a child, one who laughed and smiled and wove crowns of flowers with clumsy fingers.
He can’t remember the last time he heard Legolas laugh. Every night, he tries to remember; he knows it happened, but when? He brushes his fingertips against crumbling silks and tries to remember what it sounded like.
He remembers Sauron and his fury better than he does his own child, and his child is lost to him now.
…
In his box of treasures, there is a small pouch. It is the only part of it he can touch, and he rarely does so. It is a habit of Elves keep reminders of their children’s youth, despite the fact that their memories are as eternal as their bodies. The pouch holds teeth, pearly-white and still razor sharp, and Thranduil pours them slowly out onto his hand to count them.
He thinks his son must have a frightening smile, and yet he cannot remember what it looks like.
He digs a tiny incisor into the pad of his thumb and he watches the blood well up. Legolas could so easily have harmed him, and yet Thranduil knows he has not. He has been witness to long years of self-control and restraint, to the creation of a loyal soldier where there should have been a prince. He has watched shadows grow until he can no longer recall the light that came before them.
…
It is Elros who manages to break through the fog. He stands before Thranduil’s throne and refuses to move until Thranduil has listened and heard and understood what he has to say.
There is an army of Orcs encamped at the base of Erebor. The men of Dale dither and fret over their decisions; their King is old and their council too bloody minded to choose one thing over another. It is up to the Elves, up to Thranduil, to act.
Thranduil holds no love for Dwarves. He knows them to be stubborn and treacherous creatures who covet what they should not. It was the Dwarves who killed King Thingol and broke the heart of Melian – who in doing so began the Sack of Doriath and for that he can never forgive them – and yet his hatred is not strong enough to abandon them to the armies of Sauron.
Should Erebor fall, then so will Dale and – after a time – Mirkwood itself. His world will burn and his people will die. Sauron will strip him of his woodland realm and crown him King of Ashes. It is only in an alliance that a hope of victory lingers.
An alliance and a quest to the South. His son and eight others are fighting their way into the heart of Mordor itself, hoping against all hope to end this. Thranduil can do no less than that. He had sworn to himself and to the babe he had borne that Legolas would be good; that he wouldn’t fall to the depravity of the creature that sired him, and that he would become an Elf of whom Thranduil – and all of Lasgalen – could be proud. He has become so, despite everything, and Thranduil knows that it is his turn.
“We go to war,” he says, and the look of relief on Elros’ face is disturbing in its intensity. Had he truly been that worried? “Tell the guard,” Thranduil continues. “Muster our forces. The Enemy shall find no weakness in the North.”
…
He dares, this time, to open the door.
His son’s chambers look hardly lived in. There are few decorations beyond those that had been carved onto the walls when the palace was built and what possessions litter the bedside table and dresser are small and neatly arranged. Here, an interestingly shaped stone; there, a half-finished attempt at carving. Thranduil had never even known Legolas was interested in such things, but it shows promise for an unfinished piece.
There is a book on healing, another thing Thranduil had never known about, and when he flips it open at the marked page, he discovers that his son had been learning how to dress his own wounds. Legolas, it seems, has not been trusting the healers to do their jobs.
And why would he? Nausea tangles in Thranduil’s belly, cold and heavy, and he remembers - remembers the confused look on Legolas’ face and the worry of the healers and the realisation that his son was still only half an Elf, no matter what he looked like. He remembers probing Legolas’ ankle and feeling the bones shift and grate together beneath his skin, feeling the heat of the swelling, and seeing no reaction to the pain.
He closes the book, abandons it to its place on the dresser and turns away, pressing his hand to his belly and fighting the urge to scream. He can remember fear skittering down his spine; he can remember turning away; he can remember standing outside Legolas’ door at night with a book of tales under his arm but without the courage to enter.
He can’t remember what Legolas looks like when he laughs and now he is gone and may never return. Thranduil snatches up one of Legolas’ pillows and breathes deep the soft scent of his son’s hair so that he doesn’t have to think of the lump rising in his throat and the prickling of his eyes. He hasn’t wept for an Age of Arda and has no wish to start, but…but.
Legolas is gone, and without him the world is dust and ashes.
