Disclaimer: Tolkien owns the characters, but he never said anything about when, where or how Legolas came to be, so I naturally had to make it up
Pairings: Amrod x Thranduil
Characters: Thranduil, Legolas (mentions Amrod, Valthoron (OMC), the Silvani, Eru and Amras)
Warning: extremely AU, OMC, slash, blatant m!preg (unless Thranduil isn't as male as well all thought), references to sex and war, some random fluffiness, precognition, allusions to LotR
Song: Moonlight
Words: 1,101
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delivery (noun): something delivered (to set free; to take and hand over to or leave for another; to assist in giving birth)
http://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/delivered?show=0&t=1366905660
The Greenleaf was positively angelic, a blessing unto the people of Great Greenwood, and a blessing unto Thranduil's unraveling existence, a true child of Ilúvatar's grace.
For every time he looked into those green eyes--heartbreaking and filled with the essence of life--it stole away all the breath in his lungs, caressed all riotous thoughts into soothing silence. They were the sire's eyes, yet from his beloved child's face they did not send pangs of agony through his chest, did not make him wince and look away from fear. Did not make him recall his last moments in the dappled clearing of the forest before turning his back on his heart. No, malice could breed in the air around the child, could not taint the heart in his presence.
Thranduil was enchanted. All he wanted to do whenever he could spare a moment was to sit and to watch his infant son coo adorably and sleep peacefully and giggle with thoughtless wonder, to stroke his fingers over cheeks that would put all silks to shame at their softness, to run his fingers through the downy strands of pale hair just to feel how real the tiny miracle in his arms truly was, how tangible and undeniable.
How he had lived before this moment, Thranduil sometimes pondered. If Valthoron had been born into Thranduil's darkest days of uncertainty and destruction of youth, Legolas had been delivered into the brightest days of rebuilding and recovering.
Or perhaps it was not that he was born into that brilliance, so much as that he had brought it with him into this world with those shining eyes and that breathtaking innocence. A package of rebirth and hopes and dreams that had once been thrown to the wayside, crushed under a wicked tale of war and death and tragedy, picked up and suddenly dropped into the arms of the failing young king scrambling to pull together his shattered people.
The colors had come back to the world. The piercing hatred had dulled to a low simmer. The horrible longing that had both driven him into familiar arms and scared him away now relaxed, the stretching tension pulling him constantly towards the source of all fear and all relief now drifting away on a gentle breeze.
That such beauty could be created of a union of suffering and catharsis was reassuring. That color could burst forth from a world of gray left him clawing for new hope. That a leaf of the purest green could unfurl in this hostile environment was truly a gift.
And it was not only the king to which this child gave new life, but the whole of their people. The first child born after the return of the scant forces from Mordor, beaten and broken with an inexperienced leader at their head and the weight of failure upon their shoulders. So many friends had been lost, so many husbands and brothers and sons perished, their bodies lying unclaimed in the vast plains to rot under blazing sun with the filth of orcs, black and red blood mingling into barren earth.
To see such life flourishing in their care after their world had been ravaged and torn apart before their eyes--it was like seeing the first flower blooming gloriously in adversity after a bitter, frigid winter abused all soft petals into back husks. The Greenleaf was a more precious delivery--for his family and for his subjects--than any amount of wealth or power Thranduil could possibly have wished for--a vibrant child born of healing and accepted fears and that tiny catalyst of hope for better days peeking over the horizon in the wake of retreating shadows. He seemed to fill every minute with wonder that had long since faded away in the wake of disillusionment and despair.
Yet even as Thranduil looked down upon the child, he felt some part of his most hidden soul ache for the little one.
New life was springing forth, rebounding after a time of great sorrow, and yet he sensed the veil of foreshadowing lingering over all of their heads. It was, perhaps, the primal intuition which allowed Golodhrim women to give their offspring such prophetic names. Though Thranduil could put no right name to it, that touch of something surreal and beyond the cliffs of the world was present, writhing under his skin and filling the air--he could feel it.
Could feel that it was not only rebirth which had brought this tiny package of joy into a world suffering from lack. This was a container of fate, written like an epic tale in the tears of the stars and the singing of the seas and the asymmetry of the earth. The fabric of the future was being woven by the current moment, and this child was to play an instrumental role. Thranduil's very soul strained with the underlying truth--the truth which broke his heart into frantic racing and left him frantically stroking every inch of tender, rosy flesh and soft locks he could reach.
In his mind's eye, he could almost see it, a young elf dressed all in green, a great warrior at home only with a bow in his hands and the wind carrying him forth as one of restless spirit. He could hear the sound of the ocean resonating like a death march and armies screaming for blood with the fires of the earth's wounds spilling behind them, soot and ash and flaming rock blackening the sky.
The foreboding chilled him to the bone.
Perhaps, he thought, it had all been planned from the very birth of the universe long before Thranduil had taken his first shaky steps across cool grass of Doriath or Amrod had been created as the blessed sixth child of his royal house to complement the cursed seventh. Perhaps it had been Eru's voice which whispered away all the king's doubts and fears, allowed him blissful forgetfulness in familiar arms to create this puzzle piece before him. Perhaps it had always been part of the great music sung from the lips of the Ainur long before corporeality existed, and it was this life before Thranduil's ecstatic gaze that spurred Him into binding the king together with the temperamental blood of the House of Fëanor--with all its stubborn determination and burning passion.
Perhaps it was meant to be.
And, perhaps, the Greenleaf was not only the delivery of hope, but of destiny.
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Couldn't resist. I have to say, the Fellowship must have been planned somewhere in Eru's giant reference book, all neatly planned out so everyone would act out their role spectacularly with enviable style. I mean, he's got Ragnarok planned out, why on earth wouldn't he have this dinky little war with Morgoth's lieutenant with a bloated sense of power all down in the blueprints? Poor Legolas; you were totally set up.
And I hinted at his fate in there as well. The sheer number of people who (a) don't know Legolas is the son of the Elvenking of Mirkwood and (b) what happens to him after the Return of the King simply astounds me. Of course, they have to leave many details out of the movies... and I won't even go there
Listening to Moonlight by ThePianoGuys on YouTube, heavily inspired by Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata. I don't know how many of you are familiar with it (it's probably one of his best-known works right beside the Fifth), but I learned it ages ago and it's still one of my favorite pieces to just pull out and sight-read whenever I'm bored with my current assignments. It's gorgeous. Look up the inspiration; learn something new that most people don't know.
P.S. The capitalized "him" refers to Eru, in case any of you don't get it.
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