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Legolas had no memory of ever being held by his father.
The memories of elves were different to the memories of mortal men; they were more of the ilk of stone than of water and so Legolas knew for certainty that his father had never held him.
He had memories of his mother holding him of course. Mithel’s slender hands and pretty laughter. The way the room would spin as she would dance with him wrapped close, her body moving free and joyful, unhindered by jewels or ornaments.
The memories were of elves like living things. Legolas could close his eyes and go back to that time and see her dancing before him once more.
His father was not in this memory. Nor was he in any significant memory of Legolas’ childhood but one.
He was twenty years old, a babe by Elven standards, and it was his birthday. For the first time he was dressed in great finery. He remembered picking at the braid in his hair and the high neck of his robe scratching his skin. His mother was fussing, placing first a necklace about his throat and then changing it.
“Thranduil likes green, perhaps this one will please him better. He gave this to me long ago.” She was speaking to his aunt Helneth.
“Legolas is his son, he should please him no matter what he looks like.”
“Yes I know. But it is the first time he has ever summoned him. I want it to be perfect.”
The jewel had felt heavy on Legolas chest. He lifted it up in his small hand and stared at it.
Some time later he found himself walking up the winding stairs carved into the great trees, and crossing the bridge to the throne room. His heart was thudding in his chest so loud he was surprised that his mother, who kept her hand behind his head, guiding him, couldn’t hear it. He cocked his head to look at her pale face and in a sudden moment of clarity, released that it was because her heart too was beating so loud she could hear nothing else.
As they reached the top he saw his father sitting upon the throne of oak and yew and the antlers of fallen great elk. It was not the first time he had seen his father of course. He had seen him from afar sometimes during feasts and ceremonies. He had seen him closer in his mother’s chambers now and again, heard the low ponderous thrum of his voice and seen the pale, blue eyes briefly turn to regard him before he was ushered away by his mother’s maids.
As always he was struck down by his father’s beauty.
It was a different thing to his mother’s which was like the beauty of the glistening water, and the dancing trees when a great wind blew, or that of the joyful harp music she played which lulled him to sleep at night, those things warmed his heart and filled him with joy.
His father’s beauty was a thing entirely different, as bright and as fierce as starlight and felt just as ancient and unknowable. Gazing upon him, Legolas was conscious that the beat of his heart had changed. He did not understand it and so for a long time afterwards he thought what he was feeling was fear. It was not unreasonable that he should think this for his young heart, unfettered by shadows, had never yet experienced fear.
“Come closer, my son.” Thranduil’s fingers moved. Legolas followed the movement with his eyes.
Mithel who had not been called, stood rooted to the spot. He felt the pressure of her fingers behind his head strengthen. He put one step forward, then another, and then another. The feeling in his chest intensified.
Thranduil stood. The folds of his silver gown rippled when he moved. He wore a crown of ageless branches and red flowers. There was a green jewel on his finger, the same color as the one on Legolas’ chest. He saw Galion, his father’s steward, whom he recognized as having spoken to him kindly at festivities. Galion smiled at him reassuringly.
Legolas came before the throne and Thranduil leaned down. His father’s hair was about him and it was the same color as his own. Long fingers touched his face. A shock went through him. His eyes flew up and met Thranduil’s pale ones but there was nothing there that he could read.
“You have named him after the leaves in the forest.” Thranduil spoke not to him but to Mithel who still yet stood some distance away.
“Yes.” There was a note of defiance in Mithel’s voice. “You said I could name him whatever I wanted so I have named him after the young, green things; they are free of sorrow and pain.”
“To be free of sorrow and pain, if only it were so easy as naming oneself such.” Thranduil’s fingers left his face and he straightened up. A wild feeling came over Legolas. He wanted to reach up and grasp his father’s hair. But he held onto himself - his mother certainly would not approve she had spent the entire morning grilling him on his manners - and the urge passed. The feeling his chest however did not. “He has a look of my father. It is very strange.”
“He has your features, my Lord. The light of the Vanyar shines in both of your bright hair.”
“Yes, perhaps. A child with my face, named after the forest leaves. You have a good sense of humor my love and a strong grasp of my fate.”
Mithel went pale and silent. His father had turned away from him, dismissing him. The crushing feeling intensified still. Legolas moved quickly, even before he knew what he was doing, snatching at the departing fabric of his father’s robe. Thranduil stilled then turned to look down upon him once more.
“Ada,” He wanted to try that word. He’d never said this word before in his life. It felt a bit odd on his tongue so he tried it again. “Ada.” Yes, better that time.
Thranduil’s eyebrows knotted. For a moment he was silent. Finally he said in a different tone to before, “Yes what is it?”
“Ada, I think you are very beautiful.” He said the first thing that came to his moment with great honesty.
A look of surprise came over Thranduil’s face. An odd look came briefly into his eyes, before they hardened once more. He reached out and touched Legolas’ hand, pulling his grip away. He said, “A compliment to me is a compliment to yourself my son.”
Mithel let out a breath.
“My Lord,” She had to raise her voice to call to his retreating figure. She held out her arms and Legolas goes to her. They are warm and familiar and yet the feeling in his heart is not quelled. “My Lord what of the War against Angmar? Are we to do nothing? The Witch-King presses hard upon Imladris and our reports have said they are under seige.”
A wave of a hand. a dismissal. “Yes what of it?”
“They are our own people, we cannot forsake them in the hour of their need.”
“Hour of their need? Last I checked I have received no request for aid from Elrond, so why should it trouble me? Clearly he feels he is up to the task of managing it on his own.”
Mithel pressed on, “The Lady Celebrian has been my friend since we were children. She has written to me. I know there is some- difficulty- between you and the Lord Elrond, but those are things from a past Age! We must put our differences aside. If you will not go, I will go myself and any of those who would follow me of their own accord.”
“A warrior queen you set yourself to be, I see.” Thranduil’s voice was deeply amused. “Very well then. Do you what you wish, I shall not stop you my Lady.”
Mithel’s fingers dug into into Legolas’ shoulders and he felt the thud of her heart move through him like thunder. “I shall leave tomorrow then. Will you come tonight?”
A smile touched the Elven King’s mouth, but not his eyes. “Very well.”
***
Like all children, Legolas had no end of curiosity. Especially when he had seized upon a new object of fascination. Helneth had disappeared somewhere, irritated by his incessant questioning about his father. “You are your mother’s son truly,” She had said at the end. “What is outward beauty when the heart is withered and dead?”
He had no idea what she meant. It did little to deter him.
Ear to door, Legolas held himself as still as possible. When one was doing something one knew was wrong, it felt as though every movement of the wind could betray you.
“Do you still dream of it?” It was his mother’s voice that spoke.
“I do not sleep very much. But even in waking dreams it haunts me.”
“Won’t you let me ease your suffering?”
“Would that you could, my love.”
“How do you know if you close your heart to me and never let me in?” Legolas had never heard her speak in this tone of voice before. She was angry yes - she had been angry at him before when he had slipped out of his room one night to follow the call of the trees and so he recognised the sound - but it was not just anger. There was a low timbre in her voice, a desperate sadness that the young child felt but did not understand. “You call me love,” She continued. “But sometimes I wonder if you love me still. You are too changed from the youth I once knew in Doriath.”
A pause. “You too are changed, Mithel. The girl I knew would never have had such doubts.”
His mother laughed. But there was no joy in it. “The girl I once was, ah how I remember it! I knew not pain nor fear. Doriath! A dream it seems to me now, the golden grove when I once sat at Melian’s feet. Truly I felt my cup was full, that no more would I ever need, until that day that I stood upon the parapets and a company of elves rode in to give Lord Oropher a message and I saw your face.”
“A cursed day it must seem to you now.” Thranduil’s voice had a dangerous undertone.
"Do you seek to mock me my Lord? Truly I do not know. I know only I was so sure in my love for you that I could see nothing else. And perhaps there was nothing to see. For you were merry in those days, my Lord, before the shadow of Dargorlad stole your smile-”
“Do not speak to me of that battle!” Thranduil said suddenly, dangerously. Legolas recoiled from the door. He didn’t need to put his ear to it any longer. Anyone walking up and down the corridor could have heard everything. “Do not speak to me of what you do not know. You have never known suffering such as I have known; you have never seen the faces of the dead elves in the marshes, heard their cries and felt their cold, desperate clutches. You have never felt the flame of dragon fire on your face, melting your skin! The feeling of Morgul blade piercing your breast! You have never held the body of your father in your arms and felt his life and joy leave him- do not speak to me of it to me!”
The door banged open suddenly. With no where to turn, Legolas flattened himself against a wall. Thranduil came out and stopped short at the sight of him. A bitter smile touched his lips. “Eavesdropping is the past time of base creatures.” He said and Legolas was filled with shame. He had no time to respond because Thranduil swept past him without another word.
For a moment he didn’t know what to do. Then his mother’s sobs caught his attention. He went in slowly, cautiously. “Naneth? Are you all right?”
For a moment Mithel did not move, bent over the fire in the mantlepiece like an old crone, her slender body heaving with her tears. Then she turned.
“You are just like him,” She said slowly. “You look just like him.” She passed her hand over her face as though she could not look at him.
Stunned he could not move. The next moment Helneth was in the room, exclaiming, “What is the matter? I heard yelling. Legolas what are you doing here?” She put her arms around him, lifted him up and passed him to a maidservant. He turned and saw the pale face of his mother watching him leave, looking for the first time in his life as though she did not know him.
It was the last time he ever saw her.
Some weeks later when all that remained from her band of warriors stumbled back into the forest and the scouts brought back the message, he remembered hearing a terrible cry that rent the night. It turned all his blood to ice. No one told him what had happened, Helneth was weeping in her own room, and when some time later he had stood on the balcony and seen his father ride out atop the Elven elk, with a host of his people behind him and his hair turned silver by moonlight, he felt again that crushing sensation in his chest.
After that his father had never summoned him again except to stand somewhat near him when important visitors came. He would wear the green jewel again, the one that matched his father’s ring, but they would never speak.
No orders were ever given to him of what he should be doing and so Helneth took over his education. But now he was not a child any longer.
As the memory faded from Legolas, he straightened up. The green jewel went back into the box on his dresser and he straightened up the collar of his shirt. Plain green, just like the others. He brushed back a stray hair.
It was his hundred year two weeks ago, he was now fully grown. He had thought perhaps his father would send for him that day but he had not.
“Nothing at all,” Helneth had grumbled. “Typical of that man!”
Helneth was probably the only person in all of Eryn Lasgalen that could get away with calling the King “that man”.
“It’s no matter.” Legolas said. “I have spoken to Tauriel and it is all arranged.”
Helneth smiled. She had been good to him, a good as any mother would have been. “So easily you could have fallen to idle past times like some of the other youth in this time of peace, and under a leader who gives so little direction. But you are my sisters daughter and are of our proud bloodline. No matter that man’s pretensions, he was not the one that sat at the foot to Melian and received her blessing. No, my sister was more noble than him than ever he could hope! She would be so proud of you, Legolas.”
Legolas was not so sure. He saw again his mother’s pale face, her unknowing eyes which rejected him. But he did not speak of this. Helneth was upset enough as it is.
“I have to go now. I mustn’t make them wait, I want to be just as the others.”
He went down to the courtyard where the others were milling. They smiled at him shyly, all excited, nervous. Tauriel was there at the fore, snapping orders. “Form two lines now and stop fidgeting incessantly! Do you all remember the proper greeting?”
She walked up and down the lines and stopped when she saw him, standing behind five others. She hesitated, “Perhaps-”
“It is arranged according to age is that not right Captain? This is my spot.”
Her green eyes regarded him sombrely. He had not known her very long but already he could see the steel in her. Not just that but her compassion too. The blade and the healing hand, both. She nodded and moved on.
When they were called they proceeded in rank and file towards the throne level. No one stepped out of line, everyone was intensely conscious of what they were doing. It was the first time most of them had ever been presented to the King.
Legolas stopped when the elf in front of him stopped.
“My King.” They all made the salute in unison, hand on their breast and bending at the knee. It was all very clean and well done.
Tauriel’s voice sounded in the front, “My King these are the new recruits for this year.”
“So many this year? That is well.”
That voice. Legolas breathed in deeply. The steps came nearer.
“What of the reports of the dwarves moving in the north? I do not like that they traipse through our lands wily-nily as though it is some common road.”
“They are Durin’s kin, my King. They come from Moria and according to the scouts, they speak of a mountain in the northeast which they are calling Erebor. They wish to settle there.”
“Ah, not content with plundering the depths of Moria, ever they set their greedy eyes upon new spoils. Very well if they wish to use our lands, perhaps I should claim a share of whatever treasure they may find in that mountain. Gildor arrange the meeting.”
“Yes my King.”
His father’s steps stopped beside him. Legolas tensed up. He did not look up but he could feel the weight of Thranduil’s gaze fall upon his hair. For a moment there was silence. Legolas fought an urge to clutch his chest.
Then the footstep moved on. “Where will you send these new recruits first? They appear very green indeed.” The same casual, light tone but there was an undertone do it, something dangerous.
Tauriel appeared to know this. She said very carefully, “There is a report of some spiders in the south, near Lake Eroth. I would lead the party myself, and many experienced elves to oversee the young ones.”
A pause. “That is well, Tauriel. I should like to read that report.”
“Yes my King.”
A wave of that hand. They straightened. Legolas caught a brief glimpse of Thranduil’s face, half turned towards him, before he turned in time with the others, facing the other direction. They proceeded out of the throne room.
A few days later they rode out to Lake Eroth. As they passed through the Great Gates, Legolas saw the tall figure of his father standing still on his balcony, watching.
It was not fear, that feeling in his chest which squeezed his heart and made his lungs cease to function. He was older now and knew better.
It was agony.