Building Ithilien [Legolas] LOTR

Do Not Go Gently

"Where am I?" she meekly asked.

"You rest in my tent. We set up a camp outside the fort." Thranduil answered softly.

"Why?" she rasped out the word; her throat was so dry. Then she remembered the fort, the dragon, and the painful memory of the battle and Eledhel's death slammed into her.

She squeezed her eyes shut, desperately trying to block the vivid images replaying in her mind of Eledhel falling on the battlefield, three arrows piercing his chest. A stray tear slid from the corner of her closed eyes, and Thranduil knew she relived every horrible moment of her brother's death.

He had seen grief before and wished that this elleth, so young, would not be tainted by it; or that his son would not have to watch her waste away. Legolas was tenderhearted to a fault, and Thranduil knew that her suffering had the power to destroy his youngest.

Still he wished to comfort her. His Legolas loved her, and that was enough for this father.

"It is my understanding, Miredhel, that you are my son's chosen one. I see you are wearing his ring," Thranduil observed, hoping to pull her from the misery of her own dark thoughts.

Miredhel's eyes fluttered open at the king's comment. She did not know what to say. Thranduil was terrifying—as a king, he had a reputation of being stern and hard, with a temper that was legend among elf kind, but here he was now—holding her hand and speaking to her in dulcet tones.

She had no strength for prevarication or cleverness now. Miredhel could only speak plainly. "I love your son," she said, her voice weak and strained. "I do not know if I ever believed that I deserved him..."

Thranduil shook his head sorrowfully. "Dear one, I did not come to chide you! I did not even mean to wake you, but I am glad for a chance to speak with you and bring you comfort. I know you may feel you are without family right now, but..." His eyes were warm and bright. "You are Legolas' intended, and I think he made a fine choice."

Thranduil touched Legolas' ring on her finger. "He chose you, Miredhel, and he loves you. Know that you are not alone, for you belong to the House of Oropher now. You have a new family, and if you ever need or want for anything, Miredhel, and it is in my power to give it to you, it shall be done."

Thranduil then kissed her hand, and with a bow, quietly left her wondering at his promise of succor. Then she slept.

The prince allowed Aragorn to tend his wounds as his father lifted Miredhel and took her away. And he knew from his father's reaction what Aragorn must have told him. Still, he had no heart for words and did not speak. Miredhel's pain was his own, and everything inside him was being rent in two, slowly and murderously.

She was dying. And he found himself wishing for the same.

Every step across the camp to join her was torture. His deep blue eyes singed any who met them. He was furious. Why should this happen to her! Miredhel, so lovely, so gentle, so his.

Now the prince entered slowly, his eyes adjusting to the steady glow of a single burning lamp. Its light illuminated the sumptuous quarters and the divan draped with all manners of cushions and rich coverlets. Miredhel rested fitfully against the smooth fabric, as if she could not wake to save herself from a bad dream.

"Miredhel," Legolas whispered against the nearly translucent tip of her ear and squeezed her hand. He wished to wake her gently, for his father's healers wanted her to drink a potion to ease her pain.

Her eyes remained closed.

"Miredhel," Legolas tried again, and this time he brought his lips to hers in the softest of kisses. Her eyes fluttered and then opened, and she returned his kiss.