Disclaimer: I don't own the Silmarillion
Pairings: past non-con Amrod x Thranduil
Characters: Thranduil, Oropher, Valthoron (OMC) (mentions Amrod)
Warning: non-canon compliant, spontaneous child, slash, m!preg, past non-con (non-explicit), post-partum depression, depression in general, PTSD, other things that I'm too tired to think of right now...
Song: Save the World/Don't You Worry Child
Words: 1,554
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new (adjective): having recently come into existence: recent, modern; having been seen, used, or known for a short time: novel, unfamiliar; beginning as the resumption or repetition of a previous act or thing
http://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/new
A baby. With his mother's eyes and his father's locks.
It was ironic, Thranduil thought, that something so new and pristine--so beautiful--had been born from the ashes of ruin, from the end of a life, from the darkest and most horrendous of sins. And somehow had come out... untainted. So painfully alive.
The first time he held that new life in his arms, Thranduil felt nothing for it.
Nothing at all.
A child that looked like him. A baby that whined and squirmed and cried for its mother. A needy little thing that needed someone alive to love it and care for it.
Someone not him.
A hand brushed his forehead gently, fingers tracing over a furrowed brow until it relaxed. Oropher's anxious presence lingered just beside the birthing bed. "Are you not going to name him, ion-nín?"
Name him? What would I name a child? What would I name a child that I do not even want?
Perhaps it was just the first thing that came to mind. He stared down into the watery blue eyes and the wrinkled, blotchy little face. Ignored with painful clarity the fire of the downy hair already making itself known upon that small, fragile skull.
"Valthoron."
A beautiful little life. Dead to the world, Thranduil stared at it for a few minutes more, feeling utterly blinded by its resplendence and chained to the earth with his own lack of brilliance, feeling no spark of joy. No reanimation of his gray world or epic epiphany of the spirit. No familial kinship burned and no parental attachment yearned.
Nothing, nothing, nothing...
Holding his newborn son did not bring back his life.
Awkwardly they sat. And he could not bring himself to cradle the now-whimpering baby close to his breast. Could not even bring himself to smile at that face. Did not feel an ounce of maternal instinct.
He must have realized and understood, for Oropher swept the child away quickly, carrying the infant to another room. Thranduil merely leaned back against his mountain of pillows and allowed his eyes to roll upwards, to stare at the empty canvass of the ceiling, wondering if this was all that "life" held for him now. What a farce! What a joke!
Later, when he heard the child crying, he did not even have the urge to get up and go to the babe, soothe away the tears and fix whatever brought upset upon his frail offspring. He did not even have the urge to twitch. He just wanted to stay still and allow all the life to seep out of his limbs.
He felt nothing... Nothing at all...
---
The child was several months old before Thranduil next handled the tiny, delicate form.
Limber and curious, Valthoron was already keeping his caretaker and grandfather upon his toes day-in and day-out with his antics and insatiable troublemaking. The little one had taken up crawling like a duckling takes to water, getting into everything that caught his fancy, from Oropher's hair to the kitchen cupboards to the dirt of the flowerbeds. Truly, the child's clothing was stained and torn and utterly ruined, and yet the boy seemed not worse for it at all.
And he had to admit, the babe was adorable, even with streaks of dark mud across his face and dripping off his grabby little fingers. Chubby cheeks and huge eyes, a tiny button nose and bouncy curls spilling all over.
For the first time, Thranduil actually sat down and played with his son.
"I want to see him."
"Are you sure... If you need more time to recover..."
"I am certain, Adar."
Allowed those tiny, perfect little fingers to wrap around his longer, graceful digits and felt connection. Allowed the child to gnaw his hand and smear dirt all over his clothes and didn't mind. Even allowed Valthoron to muss and tangle his hair, drooling all over the finely combed and braided locks, and somehow he was endeared by the mess rather than repulsed
The little one made himself home in Thranduil's lap, leaning up against his "mother". Large eyes--turquoise eyes, so blatantly of the Sindarin bloodline that the young parent felt his heart settle somewhere in his throat--began to droop with fatigue as early afternoon set in with its lethargic heat bearing down. The toothless mouth opened in a breathtaking yawn, complete with a small coo of delight, before the child snuggled into the warmth offered so freely and tenderly.
"I want to get stronger. And I want to know my child. I care not how he was conceived."
"You care not at all?"
"Not at all."
Raising a trembling hand, Thranduil stroked through the fiery curls. But they did not burn his skin nor carve open deep welts of scarlet--not like the locks of the man in his nightmares, whose russet curls laid like white-hot brands to bare flesh, leaving behind vivid, imaginary marks that still stung. Carefully, Thranduil allowed himself to enjoy the downy feeling between his fingers.
Allowed himself to enjoy a little bit of that warmth which had so sorely been missing. The lost fire that left behind a festering wound that would not heal before it was cleansed properly of infectious depression.
A little slice of life born anew.
Wrapping his arms around the tiny form, Thranduil closed his eyes and lay back in the grass, sleeping child spilled all across his stomach and chest, chubby little legs hanging over his sides and head tucked safely beneath his chin. Without thought, his eyes began to droop, and his hands stroked and stroked the silky hair and the soft cheeks, tickling across fluttering eyelashes...
It was warm... so warm...
---
The boy had just turned seven, and Thranduil wondered how he would ever keep up with such energy. Always heading somewhere new. Always trying something different. Running to and fro from dusk til dawn. His son was an endless bundle of pure life.
Long since had Valthoron begun speaking, and he talked constantly about anything and everything. About his fascination with the birds and their pretty voices echoing in the trees. About all the flowers in their miasma of colors and the sweetness of their scents. About all his silly little half-imagined fairytale adventures involving dragons and slaying evil dark lords as he romped through the meadows and forests.
It was... nice. More than nice. More than comforting and soothing.
It was like bathing in the sun.
When he had first held the child--little Valthoron, son of a nameless Kinslayer--he would never have imagined such a product of terror and bloodshed could bring such joy and splendor to anyone's life. That such a reminder of all the things he wished most dearly to forget could somehow become so central to his existence that he could not imagine going without the tiny, brilliant spirit.
There were not many things that Thranduil much cared for.
But he adored Valthoron.
The broad smile on that bright little face, lighting up whenever he came into sight. Raining down the warmth upon his skin, leaving a smile of his own helplessly quirking at his lips.
He would reach down and lift the child up, pressing his lips against freckly, flushed cheeks and on the delightfully small, slightly upturned nose, relishing in the peals of giggles that would follow. And it would leave his insides quivering with a feeling other than dread. Would drain color back into his black-and-white world until he could not imagine fading away into paleness and leaving this behind.
I understand why... why I was not accepted within the Halls...
Why Mandos sent me back...
Valthoron would never have been born. Would never have even existed. And any happiness that could have been scrounged from the wreckage of broken lives would have been long-lost to a broad ocean of despair and unhappiness that would never evaporate, would never dry up and uncover the sea-floor of possibilities beneath.
The thought of lingering as a shadow forever, dead in all but spirit and wandering the pitiless gray Halls, was enough to send cold shudders through Thranduil's body. Enough to make his hands grasp his son and hold tight the little one to his chest, embracing gratefully.
It didn't matter that Valthoron was half of him. That he had freckles and red hair like the fiery demon-spawn of his wretched dreams. That he looked like a noldo and shared in their innate curiosity and stubbornness. It didn't matter that he had not been wanted or planned. That he was not born of a peaceful union of love and acceptance, but of something hard and cruel.
None of it mattered, because the tiny child hugging skinny arms around his neck and nuzzling against his cheek was his son. The little tendril of fire that somehow managed to bring new life to this desolate reality.
And Thranduil was thankful for that fire of spirit. And for the accident that resulted in this twist of destiny.
He was holding on with two hands. Never planning on letting go.
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This is going to be quick tonight. I want to sleep.
Obviously a continuation of "Strength" and "Alive" (blatant references to both of them much?). I've finally picked up this arc again. It's been so neglected! We'll have to see where it takes me, but I'm too tired to think of plot points at the moment.
Song: Save the World/Don't You Worry Child both originally by Swedish House Mafia--but this is the Pentatonix remix that I absolutely adore. So listen to them, because it's totally awesome and makes me buzz all over with happiness for some strange, unnameable and inexplicable reason. I just think that, of all the remixes I've seen of these two pieces, this is one of my favs by far. And one of my fav works by Pentatonix in general.
Now, I am going to sleep. Sorry for the lame-ass AN.
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