Princess of the Woodland Realm||LOTR

Prologue

The King paced in his bed chambers, impatient. If his Queen was in distress, he would never know it, for the walls were thick and any sounds that met his ears came from the crackle of the fireplace. The Kingdom had cause to celebrate during these dark times. War stirred just outside of Mirkwoods relatively safe borders, and yet, a new Royal was on the way.

"My Lord, we have doubled our patrols as you ordered. However, the enemy moves closer by the day. We must barricade the palace doors." A brown haired elf spoke. His voice slightly startled the Elvenking, who simply nodded in understanding, his mind clearly elsewhere.

"Eryndir is right. That would do well to protect your son, your wife... and your daughter, King Thranduil." Aerin, the head healer, joined the pair. "She is doing well, my King. Both your Princess and your Queen." Thranduil was pleased to hear that both his wife and newborn daughter were fine. He was finally able to breathe a sigh of relief.

"Daughter? Can I see her? Come, Legolas!" Thranduil didn't wait for an answer. His young son, and heir, waited for him in the hallway. Thranduil scooped up the elfling in his arms as they made their way to the healers. Thranduil couldn't deny how much his son looked like him. He only hoped his daughter looked like her mother, he would watch her grow in love and light. 

His wife lay upon a bed, cradling a small bundle, swaddled in a silver blanket. The same blanket that Legolas had been swaddled in when he was born all those years ago. Thranduil approached slowly, trying not to wake the sleeping infant. Legolas leaned in his father's arms, trying to get closer to his mother. His bright blue eyes were curious.

 "Ada, who is mother holding?" Legolas asked quizzically. This was all so confusing and new to the crown prince. He didn't understand how an elf could be so small. Babies were a new concept to him, despite it being the only topic of discussion over the past few weeks. Thranduil sat upon the covers gently. His own crystal blue eyes met those of his new daughter. He instantly fell in love with his daughter, the same way he fell in love with his Queen. 

"She is your new little sister, ion-nin." His mother handed the baby over to Thranduil. The Elvenking carefully held the bundle in his hands. Thranduil remembered Legolas' birth. He'd never held a baby before, his arms trembled as he held new immortal life within his grip. This time was different. This time, his hands were steady, strong, and unwavering as he held his daughter. A princess. Their family was finally complete. 

"Aranel. That shall be her name. A name fit for our princess." Thranduil spoke softly. Legolas placed his small hand on Aranel's head. She was so small. He still didn't understand, and he supposed he would when he was older.

Mere months later, the family's happiness was gone. Thranduil's armies had finally pushed the Orcs back to Gundabad. Their warriors were spent. Despite his wishes, the Queen had insisted on going to battle. Their two children were safe in the palace in Mirkwood. That was all that mattered to them. She was a skilled warrior, so Thranduil trusted her.

The battle ended after several hours of blood loss. The Elves were victorious, yet the cost of lives was great. Thranduil searched, waving off the healers who insisted they tend to his wounds. He had not seen his beloved wife for some time. A flash of golden hair among the fallen warriors caught his attention. His heart dropped when he found her. Blood coated her fair face, and the gaping hole in her abdomen had bled out long ago. Thranduil couldn't hear himself scream. He couldn't hear anything around him. The tears fell, unwanted, yet unabated. Normally, the King would never let his warriors see him break. He needed to be strong for them.

Thranduil held his wife close and kissed her head. Laying her back down, he stood and left the bodies. He wouldn't take his wife's body, not when other fallen warriors wouldn't return to their own families. Orcs would soon swarm again to mutilate the dead, take their armour and weapons and potentially eat the bodies. Mirkwood's warriors had no choice but to leave the fallen.