Mîlrin Mormeriliel

- except - 

Her eyes stared at some far-off vision, beyond his sight, beyond, perhaps, this world, and it struck him that he knew those eyes. Perhaps it was only a wish, but he could imagine staring into those eyes in an age when they were younger and the shadow of a haunted age did not live in their depths, and the vision tasted of truth. Dead, she had said, dead and slain, and Legolas could almost see it in front of him: cold empty halls, endless waiting for a judgment that would not come. Too long away from sunlight and the soft beauty of nature; too long away from warmth. Surely he could not see such things so vividly if they were not truth? Dreams and stories, he reminded himself sharply, sometimes seem clearer than reality.

And yet his heart believed.

Here she is. She sounded so small, so lost in a world that seemed now too big for her. Legolas’s heart ached - he would call it heartbreak, and yet the pain was not evil; there was something that, with time, could mature to joy, once the shock was gone. Here she is. How could he disbelieve, he who remembered a voice like hers whispering into his ears, eyes like hers - though so much brighter - crinkled in laughter…

My lord, Galion had said; the memory came back to him suddenly. There is something else you should know. Legolas had not stopped to listen.

If he had, he would not have believed what he heard.

While Legolas stood still, too consumed by the crashing ocean of emotion inside of him to pay heed to the rest of the world, she had turned from him. He did not realize until she spoke, and then he snapped back to this reality, the reality of his room and the woman in front of him, who sounded small and choked. Brashness? his thoughts echoed in confusion. 

His mother had returned to him and she thought to beg his forgiveness. Legolas could have laughed, although such a laugh would carry the edge of hysteria. What could there be to forgive?

He had eyes that mirrored her’s and her father’s more so than they did his father. Not that she couldn’t see Thranduil in her dear Legolas. Silver hair. Clean brows. Shape of his handsome face. But, she was in there too. The shape of her lips. The blueness of her eyes. Even her cheekbones seemed to dawn his face.

He was hers, all hers. 

She wished dearly that she could have seen him grow into these features. She wished her life hadn’t been taken so tragically and she could have help reared him into this warrior he was today. Oh, she would have taught him many things. She would have angered Thranduil and all the Mirkwood elves to have done so. Not that anything she could have done would have angered her beloved, no matter how he liked to pretend. 

Mîlrin would have been there. To guide him at the sword or aid him win the affection of his dearest love. She would have mothered and befriend him, and yet... all Mîlrin ever did was rot in a ground while her child grew with no mother and a bitter father. 

All because she made a poor decision on the field. All because the cold of Thranduil’s steel sought to pierce her chest. All because not all deaths were heroic or honorable, that few were accidents from miscalculations. 

His hand came to brush back a piece of hair she hadn’t noticed had fallen. The warmth of his fingers on her cheek reminded her of a happier time, the jolt of shyness and love she felt from Thranduil the first moment he dared reach for her. He was so hesitant, so scared for the brink of emotion. And here it was again, on their son.

For Arwen, Daughter of Elrond and Celebrían, called the ‘Undómiel’ and ‘Lúthien Reborn’ from her earliest, tenderest of budding years, it is not rare to hear others tell her that she is beautiful, or that she takes after her parents, or her grandmother, or to travel half their world over to simply gaze on her face and take a space of time in her presence. 

But these words, they are not the same ones. 

Nor do they mean the same thing.

They are a comment on her beauty, but they are a comment on a comment of her beauty before she, or, perhaps, even her mother might have known it. Her mother. A crystal bell hung her heart, that rang with silver dulcet tones, at the idea of her. A beautiful love and a fierce ache that centuries did not silence.

That she bore like a scar, though it did not grace her skin. Only her heart.

Mîlrin reached up, her hands pushing back the hood of her robe letting it fall away from her face. There was no need to hide before the child of her dearest friend. But, even in this comfort, Mîlrin was hesitant to reveal her name. 

“I knew her fondly. Your father too. I knew the twins. Elrohir always undid my braids when he sat upon my hip and Elladan would hide under my skirt like he was scared of the world.” She smiled happy memories swimming in her head for the first time since she woke again. “Thranduil most hated that and never failed to scold your father of Elladan’s behavior.” She would laugh, but it didn’t feel right to. “I even cradled you in my arms in your first days…”

"OH MY GOD CAN I HAVE THEM NOW???" His eyes light up as he wiggles in his car seat. 

"Oh I guess I might lose one in the car and that would mean I can’t build the spaceship." He pouts a little bit but then his mother offers him candy. 

"Can I have a soda too?" He doesn’t really think that’s going to fly but it is worth a shot and maybe he can get chocolate milk out of the deal on top of candy. 

Chocolate candy and chocolate milk. His family were complete chocoholics, but he really couldn’t blame either of them. 

“Thrandy, love, chocolate raisins please. Oh. And popcorn. No road trip can be complete without popcorn.” She called not even looking up to see where he was. “And milk would be fantastic. Though no shakes, too sweet for Legolas.” 

Oh, he wasn’t going to like that she said that, so quickly she turned to her son and said. “Do you need to go to the potty? It’s been awhile since you last went.”

He stared at her hisface still flushed red, his hands in his lap and his eyes locked on her small face. He had no idea what to do with himself. Everything about this situation had him flustered and unable to speak. All he could do was stare at her.

He was a shy elf, despite his looks and his status he was a vary shy elf that did not like to speak, he did not take well with new people. He knew he would not make a good king. His blush was not fading, not even from the tops of his ears.

He flinched form her hand before allowing her to touch his head. He stared at her with his big ice blue hues and his lips parted slightly. He could not speak, all that he could muster was a quick shake of his head. He watched her and tried to force word’s out of his mouth. “I am well, th-there is n-no need, I-I Uh…..” His lips promptly resealed themselves.

Her nose scrunched up, she just could not comprehend why it was he was so red if he was not ill. She fell back to sit on her ankles. Her mind fully concerned over her future husband. “Then if you are not ill you should tell your ears to not be so red.” She nodded once. “But...” his stuttering did not go unnoticed with the young elfa. “If you are cold, we should go into the sun.”

She looked up, noticing how he sat off in the shade. Humming she crawled off the bench before reaching to grab his hand and pull him toward a more sunny spot. 

The elf’s sobs slowed, but tears still shined on her cheeks as she turned to face him at last. Legolas could not imagine what could cause her such grief. She looked at him as if…Legolas did not have the words to describe it. As if she had lost something, something precious, beyond description - it reminded him, somehow, of the way his father looked sometimes, late at night when he was lost in memory. Legolas had felt loss, but never that potent; his loss was abstract, for a home whose greatness he had never seen, for a mother he’d barely known. Such pain as was in her eyes was beyond him still.

My little one she called him, and Legolas caught his breath, not sure what to expect. The way she spoke to him - as if they were close, as if they were family…As if he were a child still, and had not seen more than a thousand years in his life. Slowly, Legolas let his pack slip onto the ground, but hovered where he was, unsure whether to step forward or back. There was a part of him, some strange, childlike part of him that automatically wanted to step forward…but his doubt and his fear held him back.

He should leave. He did not know what she was trying to say, but he did not like it; it made no sense, for her to talk to him as if she knew him, when he did not so much as know her name.You should greet me with a smile and a peck to my cheek… But she was familiar to him. Her voice summoned up vague memories, long forgotten, of a lullaby sung into his ears as he fell asleep in smooth elvish song. Her hair made him think of small hands running through brown tresses just like those, fingering braids and wishing for his own some day…

No. This was madness. Legolas shook his head, closing his eyes briefly, as if he could erase the scene in front of him. “I do not understand,” he said, and his voice was low, wavering. “You speak as if you were…” It could not be. The connections he was making, they were pure dream, nothing more. “My naneth is dead. You cannot be her.”

“Dead indeed. Slain ages ago by one who...” Thranduil’s face that day surfaced in her memories and quickly she killed the thought. “A rose that welt into the ground and spent her ages alone in the Halls of Mandos with no starlight over her head and no spring to warm her... That was your mother.” She whispered, the memories as haunting as her death. 

The halls were bleak, cold. She waited to go to Aman, to find herself once again in the company of her kin and her love. Each time she faced the judge he decided the blessed realm was not in hers to enter, and the years that stretched showed her how lonely she was. 

Showed her how much she missed her beloved.

Her child.

Then he released her. But instead of waking in the realm of the Eternal, she ended here. Returned to a king who was so far broken and would not look upon her face. Returned to a son who knew not her.

“And yet here she is.” She has never heard her voice so small. So afraid. As soon as the words fall from her mouth she wondered if this was a revelation better suited for Thranduil to tell his son. Not the ghost of what she once was. 

Though it was too late now. 

He smirked slightly just at the right corner of his mouth. It was barely visable unless you knew where exactly to look for it. He stood there letting her wrap her arms around his neck, he had to bend slightly to eve enable her to do so. He winced sightly as her grib tightened but then he relaxed into it, letting out a huff of content air.

She brought the laughter into his life and in turn he was the reason she was so earthbound, he held her to the earth so she did not get lost in the stars. He’d loved her for years, right from the moment she had told him she would be the one marrying him. He’d made sure that it actually happened.

He let his arms move to wrap around her, he knew how her belly would swell as she carried his child. He may have seemed calm but inside he was all a bundle of joy, it just didn’t show on the surface, something his father had beaten into his personality. He lifted a hand to pick a rose from behind him. It had bloomed, as he touched it, the garden was a little sick, clearly.

He moved back from her a little pressing his lips to hers, placing the rose in her hair mindful of the thorns on her skin. “There my woodland rose, are you pleased with me now?”

She lived for the moments she made his lips curl up just so slightly. Even if no one else could see the small turn, she loved them as if they were her own.

That’s how he always was. Calm, collected. Where as her emotions sore above the heavens in flights and burst of emotions. And even though she could very well touch the stars, be kept here here anchored down to enjoy his love.

And she was most thankful for it.

Milrin felt the shift of her hair, knowing too well what he was doing. Her husband often commented on the attraction to roses in her ebony hair. But it was his lips on her own that was most darling. It was a brief kiss, anything but chaste. They held so much admiration for each other that even the tiniest collusion of their lips was as powerful as a strike of lightening.