Archive of Our Own ^beta

Prince Thranduil welcomes the emissary with a thin-lipped smile. He does not know the reason, but a voice in his mind is warning him, telling him to be cautious around this ‘Emissary of the Valar. ’ 

“I apologize for treating you with hostility.” he lowered his head, clearly remembering that he had pointed his arrow at the intruder — before the man spoke out and proclaimed himself friendly. Called himself an elf. 

Nowadays, even an elf is not to be trusted. 

“It is seldom that an elf visits our lands. There is nothing much to see.” Thranduil adds, even though his kingdom proves to be worthy of song. The prince did not want this emissary speaking tales of the Woodland Realm’s beauty, lest people from distant lands visit.

“You keep to yourselves,” the emissary echoes a sentiment shared by the foreigners. 

Thranduil turned to look at the emissary, and he saw great pain behind the older elf’s eyes, a slight shine in his features that reminded the prince of someone familiar. “I am Annatar,” the emissary introduced himself. “Thranduil,” the prince answers as they continue walking deeper into the heart of the kingdom. 

“I understand your skepticism, and I will leave for Lindon soon. I merely hope to regain my strength as it has been a long and harrowing journey." Annatar explains, and he wasn't entirely lying.

Merging into this form has taken a lot of power — and he refuses to admit it, but he feels weaker. 

“You need not to explain. Having a representative of the Valar in our halls is already a great honor.” Thranduil forces a smile. Centuries spent in King Thingol’s courts taught him how to be courteous to guests, regardless of the guest being suspicious. 

They both continue walking until they enter a hallway, an entire corridor made from pure Narra trees. Annatar assumes that these are the sleeping quarters. He takes a deep breath, inhaling the scent of pine and moss — out of all the elven kingdoms, the Woodland Realm is closest to the fea of Arda.

It was a marvel of its own, its architecture masculine in aesthetic nature, but its forests were fluid as the wind. His gaze trails upwards to admire the chandeliers made of amber, but a light from the corner of his eyes catches his attention.

Pure and unbrindled innocence.

He indulges in the beauty, his eyes reaching the veranda of the level above him. 

An elleth as beautiful as the morning, and her mantle as dark as the night. Annatar has never seen anything as beautiful or as innocent. He has bared witness to Luthien dancing naked in his master’s courts, and he has seen human maidens slaughtered in the hands of orcs, but he has never seen this, for you are the only thing capable of stealing his non-existent breath. 

You are not Luthien, no. 

Not even Galadriel. 

You looked nothing like the elf-maidens of Valinor — your face was a type entirely new to his eyes. Whereas Annatar's skin is as pale as moonlight, yours holds the warmth of the sun. Shining in the morning and hiding in the night, but inevitable.

He remembers his promise to Galadriel. Halbrand's promise to Galadriel. It must be forgotten, for Annatar must make a stronger vow — a tale so enchanting that an elleth of the Woodland Realm shall fall victim to its lies.

The Prince halts, staring at the elf, who is motionless, mouth agape as he gawked at you. Thranduil clenches his jaw, an unfamiliar feeling blossoming in the bottom of his chest. He has always been aware of your ability to strike any creature with fondness, the kindness of your smile has always allowed everyone to feel comfortable.

The children run in your direction, babbling nonsense as you cater to their every story. The wives tell you everything about their married lives, sometimes even asking for advice, and the young soldiers of Greenwood see you as their mother. They are all fond of you.

But this is the first time he’s seeing this type of fondness. 

Thranduil raises his gaze, watching as you pluck the strings of your harp, singing a melody that he composed during the years of your courting. A song of love, the changing of seasons and waiting. The song was composed during the first years of King Oropher's reign, when your family still resided in one of the small villages up east.

Thranduil would always visit your family home, bringing gifts — the finest gifts and equipment to ensure that your brothers hunted with ease. He had fallen in love with you upon first glance, and slowly but surely presented himself — introduced himself.

Made you fall in love with things beyond his physical appearance. You were wed after a century of courting, and the Woodland Realm has only known peace and happiness since then. As long as Oropher is King, the Woodland Realm will only feel thus.

You meet the Prince's gaze, and your lips turn into a fond smile.

Thranduil looks away.

“She is my wife,” Thranduil says, almost like a warning. 

Annatar nods his head impassively. Marriage is not enough of a reason for him not to be besotted with you. “— She has been for a thousand years now.” The Prince adds sharply, glaring daggers at the emissary. Valar be damned, no one dares to look upon his wife. 

“I see no elflings running around.” Annatar keeps his kind tone, but Thranduil can see beyond its explicit meaning. “None yet,” the prince snaps, his smile long gone from his features. 

Thranduil halts in front of one of the guest quarters. 

“This shall be your room, Lord Annatar.” 

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“When shall the emissary leave our courts?” Thranduil inquired, annoyance flashing across his features. In the seldom times that the Woodland Realm has received visitors, the prince has always been courteous with them. King Oropher raises an eyebrow. 

‘What is so different with this emissary? What did he do to cause my son such a reaction?’ Oropher mused while taking a sip of his wine. 

“He has only been here for a day, ion nin.” Oropher says, not thinking much of the situation. Thranduil mumbles something along the lines of eye and wife but his father is unable to decipher the entire sentence. “What did he do?” Oropher asks. 

Thranduil remains silent. He takes a sip of wine. 

“It is nothing,” the prince shakes his head. 

‘It is nothing but my possessiveness. There is nothing to be worried about; Annatar may lay his eyes on my wife. No, Annatar may not lay his eyes on my wife! My point is, I am the only one that she loves.’ 

Oropher chuckles, watching as his son’s eyebrows move in different directions. Thranduil reminds him too much of the Queen. 

The Queen that never was. 

“It is almost luncheon; tell your wife to dress, for we have a guest.” Oropher commands, his voice never faltering in its elegance. “Is he that special that we have to dress?” Thranduil’s eyebrows merged. 

“Your wife would want to look appropriate. I have had this conversation a thousand times with your mother. If you let her march into the halls wearing her lounge wear, you’ll never hear the end of it.” Oropher rambles, chuckling at the memory of his wife. 

“- but truly there is no difference between their lounge wear and their outside wear. It all looks the same in my eyes.” Oropher adds. Not because a husband is unable to see the difference, but because their wives will always look beautiful regardless. “It is because of our love for them that we indulge in the simplest beauty of things.” Oropher smiles. 

“Alright, ada.” Thranduil sighs, pretending not to care about his father’s tedious ramblings, but truly, the memory of his mother still sends shivers down his spine — memories of the war and the fall. He cannot bear to think about it again. 

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Thranduil enters your shared chambers, a gentle smile on his face as he sees you sitting on the floor and reading a book that he had previously discarded. 

“I was wondering why I couldn’t hear music,” he refers to the harp standing motionless on the veranda. 

“It was fun, but the sun became too bright. It bothered me,” you explained, rising to greet him with a small kiss. “We have a guest over for luncheon; Ada expects us to greet him,” Thranduil informs. 

You nod. 

“What kind of guest?” You inquired, opening your closet. Unlike him, you tried to keep your clothes few, only those of the greatest quality that would last for a hundred years. It has always been the way of your people — to be sustainable, to only take what nature wants to give, to never be greedy, for that is where you will be trapped.

“An emissary of the Valar. I walked with him, you did not see?” He asks while placing a hand on the small of your back, resting his head on your shoulder as you try to choose between your two favorite dresses. “I saw you.” You answer, always oblivious to the person trailing behind your husband; it is only him that you see.

“You did not greet me,” you frowned. 

“Apologies, lover.” He indulges. 

You choose the blue gown, the same color as his robes. He lifts his hands away from your body, reaching for the buttons behind your gown, helping you undress. “Beautiful,” he whispered underneath his breath, his hands dancing across your naked back, lifting the gown over your body, and he throws it inside one of the open hampers. 

“Only the best for my handsome prince,” you hummed while turning to look at him. Utterly drowned by his beautiful blue irises. Your husband has always been the most beautiful elf in your eyes (and you care not if others feel the same way, for he is yours). 

He places a kiss on your lips. 

Lost in the perfume of love. 

His hands snake towards your waist, about to lift your shift, but you hold both of his hands. Instead, you face them on your face until he is cupping your cheeks. 

“Lover, we must have luncheon first.” You cleverly reminded him while turning around to wear your gown. 

Thranduil groans, cursing the presence of Annatar. He walks towards your nightstand, grabbing one of the earrings that he had forged for you. “Wear these,” he says, and you comply — finding them to be the perfect choice. 

He ties the ribbons of your gowns, all the while whispering about all the things he will do to you once luncheon is over. 

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Annatar presses a finger to his lips. More beautiful up close.

Your ears tapered into delicate points, your hair uncombed, flowing down like the waves of the elven-river and effortlessly framing your face. You were wearing a simple blue gown, its tulle covering the curves of your body — making you seem like a maia of the river.

And your smile.

It is not like Lady Varda's smile that has a knowing glint, shining with the wisdom of a creature that has lived since the beginning of time, but rather, your smile is new. A breath of fresh air after a cold winter, a smile that is shy and real — moldable. "It is a pleasure to have you in our halls, Lord Annatar." You greeted, your voice reminding him of the birds that chattered on his window.

As green as summer grass, trusting and willing.

That pink tinge on your cheeks tells him that you were born in these lands, not marred by the light of the two trees. A slight in your eyes that tells him that all you've ever seen are the dense forest canopies of the Woodland Realm. A feeling entirely new to him.

He must have more.

"I apologize for not having arrived with gifts." he gives a charming smile, but your attention is focused on your husband. It will be difficult to corrupt you when this elven prince has already seduced your heart. "Your presence is enough of a gift, my lord." You turned to look at Annatar.

Feeling his light shining amidst the darkness.

Annatar was handsome, like the tapestries that King Oropher uses to decorate the corridors of the sleeping quarters. He looks like a swan rising from a great lake. His skin is pale like alabaster. His hair is golden like your husband's, but the sight of his eyes brings shivers down your spine. Sea-green like a muddied river. Sea-green like the eye of the storm, inescapable and not to be trusted.

He gives you another smile, and you return it reluctantly before reaching for your husband's hand and entwining it with yours. "Thranduil, you must eat — you have a patrol later." The King dutifully reminded his only son, placing another spoonful of mead on the Prince's plate.

"Yes, father," Thranduil relaxes, pulling his wife closer to his body. "But I do hope that you stop taking all those late night patrols..." King Oropher's voice fades in the background.

Annatar continues staring at you.

A dark plan was hatching in the back of his mind.

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It was the dead of night.

You could hear the cicadas chirping from outside your window, the fire gently flickering as it filled the room with warmth. Your lips pressed into a thin line as you watched the rising moon. Your husband ought to be back by now...where is he?

Thranduil always preferred late-night patrols, as the guards averted from volunteering around that post. As always, your husband does the work that nobody wants to do. A true prince, you smiled.

The sound of something heavy falling frees you from your thoughts.

'What was that?' You rise grabbing a dagger, and opening your bedroom doors.

"Meleth." Thranduil opens his mouth to speak, startling you.

"Meleth?" You placed a hand on your chest, attempting to calm yourself down but also fighting against confusion. Thranduil has never called you meleth, but you suppose that there is a first time for everything. "Did I startle you?" He asks, reaching for your dagger and placing it on the tall table beside the door.

His hand snakes down to the small of your waist, guiding you back inside the chambers with haste. "Yes, I did not sense you, but where did that sound come from?" You raised an eyebrow, features flooded with concern. "One of the amber from the chandelier fell, but it is alright; the servants are already cleaning it up." He answers sharply.

'The servants?'

Thranduil has never referred to your people as servants.

Your husband reaches for your chin, forcing you to look upon his eyes, and for a second — the only thing that you see are the eyes of the storm, the sight of a muddied river. "All is well." He whispers.

All is well.

A sense of tranquility floods your body. What was it that I was thinking about again?

"Were the patrols alright? You have arrived longer than usual." You made an observation while helping him undress out of his armor. "One of the guards could not attend the patrols; his wife gave birth, and I promised to cover him." He explains with full control of the conversation. You raised an eyebrow.

Normally, he is too tired to speak after his patrols. Normally, he chooses to sleep on the couch, too tired to get rid of his armor — and too worried to dirty your bed. Normally, you'd wait until he has fallen asleep before stripping him of his armor, using a wet cloth to clean his body — and he'd wake up wearing a fresh set of clothes.

He sits on the couch.

"That is very kind of you, lover." You say while reaching for the wet cloth, prepared to clean his body from all the mud and twigs, but to your surprise his body is entirely clean. "I already took a bath," he notices your alarm — well if he had already taken a bath, then why is he still wearing his armor.

"Do not think too much," he whispers again.

You blink.

What was I supposed to say?

His hands rest on your hips, marvelling at your beauty. The fire engulfed the room with a red-orange glow, illuminating your figure. You were wearing your favorite nightgown, a transparent purple shift that was perfect for nights like these — where it was hard to decipher between coldness and warmth.

The elf continues looking at you, devouring your body with his gaze.

"Lover," you opened your mouth to speak. You wanted him to look at your face, to stare deep into your eyes like he does every day.

He gives you a smile.

A smile that you cannot decipher the meaning of.

He pulls you closer until you are settled on his lap. Your breasts pressing against his chest. "I have news to share," you whispered, seeking for the warmth that his chest always provided, but tonight he is cold to the touch. "Yes?" He asks, pulling his pants down, pressing his cock on your entrance, eliciting a moan out of you.

"Look at me," you demanded.

He gives you another lazy smile.

"I am listening," he humms, pressing his cock around your entrance.

"Aaah," you moaned feeling his cock press against your cunt abruptly, and without preparation. "- Give me a second to speak." You reached for his hands that were settled on your ass. "Apologies," he lowers his head — ceasing his thrusts.

"I am with a child," you smiled — your face painted with absolute joy.

He bites his lower lips.

"Wonderful news!" He says, reaching for your chin and bridging your lips together. His kiss feels different — sloppy, needy, and filled with lust but it is your husband. Right?

He feels the stress on your shoulder, and he pulls away from the kiss.

"Be at rest," he continued thrusting.

"Hmm," you hummed while bridging your lips together again.

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Annatar continued staring at your sleeping figure. Your body is covered by your husband's shift now, but he cannot remember giving it to you. His hands trace invisible lines on the curve of your butt. You must have gotten cold in the middle of the night. You must've instinctively reached out for something familiar.

He closes his eyes, sensing Thranduil's close presence.

He looks at you.

He remembers the sight of you moaning in pleasure as he bounced you on his elf cock, chasing an inevitable high, pressing your lips together as your eyes rolled back. Oh, he might've placed you under the illusion that he was Thranduil, but every second was real. All of it.

You are his.

The Queen of the Sea and Storm.

He smiles.

When you wake up inside of his dark castle, will you be thankful to have all the power within arm's reach? Will you grow to lust after his body or will he have to use his power to make his voice echo in the back of your head once more? Will you weep and beg to be returned to your husband? Will he have to chain you?

All those scenarios made his stomach flutter with warmth.

His cock almost springing back to life.

You look so beautiful while chasing an orgasm. He wonders how beautiful you will be with your body painted purple with bruises under the weight of his torture.

Planted with his seed, always ready and willing.

His greatest conquest.

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It was morning when Thranduil was dismissed from his patrols. The sun was already shining in its full glory, birds chirping, but he knows that you are still sleeping around this time.

His head hangs low, and his shoulders are slumped as he prepares for the inevitable scolding — not from you but his father. He feels guilt bubble from the bottom of his stomach. You must've been awake the entire night, tossing and turning as you awaited for his arrival.

'I am sorry, lover. I did not mean for the patrols to last that long, but Daeniel's wife had given birth the night before, and I promised to take over his patrols. He promises to name us both as the godparents. If that is any consolation.' He rehearsed his apologies as he held a bouquet of flowers in his right hand.

He sees the faint outline of the Woodland Castle. He continues marching forward, but to his surprise, Galion sees him and begins sprinting in his direction. "Mellon!" His best friend looked worried, afraid, with bags underneath his eyes — elves do not get eyebags, unless under great stress. "What happened?" Thranduil raises an eyebrow, walking inside of the gates — confused as to why all of their guards are armored and armed.

"A letter from Galadriel came — that Annatar is not to be trusted and-and-and." Galion breathes heavily as if he is unable to speak.

"What?!" Thranduil's eyebrows merged, concern and anger flashing across his features. As if he knew deep inside that Annatar was not to be trusted in the first place. "He has taken the princess!" Gilda, my wife's closest lady royal, screams at the tops of her lungs. Gilda has tears in her eyes.

"W-we had thought that it was you who came to the chambers last night. But then this morning, when I came to prepare the princess' bath — she was gone. Which I found peculiar because the princess does not wake during these hours — but then a letter from Lady Galadriel came warning us of a possible intruder." Gilda explained as she continued to weep.

"GALION, PREPARE OUR SOLDIERS!" King Oropher shouted commands.

Hot rage bubbled inside the Prince's heart. He takes a deep breath. Do not let your anger sabotage you, he remembers King Thingol's words. He will defeat the very darkness if it means having you back.

Thranduil adjusts his arrow, "They cannot be far from here. I have already patrolled our South border; they must be in the North." Thranduil says, his calmness making him appear all the more terrifying. With his eyebrows merged and his eyes shining with rage — hell shall set Annatar ablaze. He takes a deep breath, allowing his connection with the trees to channel through his veins.

He closes his eyes, and he sees you, sleeping in the arms of a pretender.

He marches forward, a couple of soldiers following after him.

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Locked inside a black room — you cannot see anything.

'This is a dream,' you tell yourself as your eyes navigate the infinite walls of this imaginary room. Your eyebrows merge, attempting to open your real eyelids, but you do not awaken from your slumber. "Maliwag," a voice calls you by your Silvan name — the name that your husband did not give to you.

You turned to look at the source of the noise.

A gasp escapes your mouth.

"Elbereth," you kneeled.

She is truly a creature of the stars. A beauty that you cannot describe for you have not seen anything as beautiful yet.

"My sweet child," she speaks in a rhythm, "— I cannot purge the lust of every creature's heart." She explains as if you have had this conversation a thousand times before.

"What do you mean, my lady?" You raised an eyebrow.

"You must go where Sauron is scared to go," she continues to speak.

"Apologies, but I do not understand."

"Wake up! It has been a year, Maliwag."

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You hear the sound of a babe crying from beside you.

"Legolas," you whispered frantically while reaching for the boy. Your son has inherited his father's features. Shining genuine blue eyes that remind you of clouds, his silver straight hair and his cute dimples. It has been a year since you were abducted from your home — asleep and oblivious, how stupid, you cursed yourself.

Partly because Sauron's curses have made it through your mind now.

He calls you all sorts of names, but he pretends to be gentle with Legolas. He holds the babe with a gentle hand, looks at him with a smile even when threatening you, even when he tells you that he shall throw your child from the tower's windows.

You know that his false kindness has its limits. For now, your babe is his only leverage against you. "The babe has been weeping for quite some time now." he leaned on the frame of the door, watching you as a predator would do to its prey. "I'm sorry," you whispered quickly, nursing your son with a breast upon his lips.

"— the babe cannot stay here any longer. You must return him to the Woodland Realm." You continued your speech. You have been convincing Sauron to send your babe back for an entire moon now. He has always refused to listen to your pleading because he knows that Legolas is a means for him to have control. "He will die here, and if he dies, then I shall follow. I swear of it." You gritted your teeth.

If you must become a monster to keep Legolas safe. You will do it.

"Making threats now, how adorable." He teases.

"I have always been true to my words." You frowned.

He stares deep into your irises.

He knows the truth.

Mordor is not a place for elflings, it is detrimental to their fea, and you can feel your son fading from his prolonged stay here.

"Fine, but I will not return him to his father." He chuckles.

"Where will you bring him? I will know if you hurt him. I will feel it." Your eyebrows merged.

"He will be useful for my plan. I will tell Lord Celebrimbor that Legolas is my son, then I shall work under his command as a smith. Earn my ranks and then introduce my magnum opus, which are the rings. I have already strayed from my plans by taking you," he looks down at you, undressing you with his mere gaze.

"No one will believe that you are his father," you rolled your eyes.

"We already look so much alike," he smiles — merging into a form that looks similar to your husband. But not quite.

He steals your husband's nose, hair, and eyes — but in a way that sends shivers down your spine. Makes you fearful of him. For your husband has always gazed upon you with warmth, and you see nothing but darkness in his eyes.

Legolas begins to weep.

Sauron places a hand on your forehead, and everything fades to black. It will be years until you gain control of your consciousness again, years until you fight against his power — Elbereth, please keep my son safe.

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DANAË

You stared at your reflection through the mirror.

The woman looking back at you looks beautiful - but her face is unfamiliar. She has gorgeous golden curls that remind you of a lion's mane. Her cheekbones are chiseled upon a feline face, and her eyes are emerald green, enchanting, alluring, but not yours.

There is a clever glint in her eyes, and you do not like it.

"Are you admiring yourself in the mirror?" Echthrós inquires with an amused grin. "No," you snapped rather quickly while turning to look at him. Your husband of three hundred years. Your husband with whom you have thousands of memories...memories that you cannot remember right now.

He places a hand on your head, petting you as a man would a pet.

"You are beautiful. I have made it so," he mumbles - the both of you looking at your features through the mirror. Your eyebrows merged. You wanted to open your mouth - to ask him a question, but you bite those words down. Echthrós has never been known for his patience.

Your eyes trailed downwards, playing with the rings on your fingers, all of them golden. Echthrós has always made you feel nervous, always made your stomach rumble for no reason at all.

A wife should not fear her husband - and your husband has never raised a hand against you, but then again, it would be unusual for an elf to raise a hand against their own spouse. He loves me, you tell yourself all the while you feel him tugging your robes down.

He presses a kiss on the back of your head.

"Where is Legolas?" You found yourself asking, having not seen your son since Echthrós took him early in the morning. "Lord Celebrimbor has been fond of him and says that he reminds him of his brothers. He told me to rest and I figured you'd be able to find the babe on your own," Echthrós says nonchalantly.

As if he has never spent a day worrying about the safety of his son.

This damn... you cursed him in your head.

What kind of adar leaves their child in the arms of another person? Yes, Celebrimbor is the Lord of Eregion, but his duties do not include taking care of children who have healthy parents to do that for them, and you have only known Lord Celebrimbor for a year!

"Legolas is not old enough to be in the company of people beyond his own parents," you began with a soft tone.

Your son, despite looking everything like this father did not like the company of other people. Legolas would weep each time that Echthrós tried to hold him - which is the reason you allowed Legolas to spend time with his father in the first place, for them to build a stronger bond. "You coddle him too much," your husband sighs.

"I am his mother," you whispered in return.

Echthrós' hands trailed down to the small of your waist.

Your teeth burrow into your lower lip. Legolas is probably crying at this very moment, hungry and yearning for you.

"The ladies of the court are intrigued to see you, lady wife, ever since Mirdania spoke about your great beauty." Echthrós scoffs as if your beauty pales in comparison to something else. "- and I assume that you do not find joy in that." Your eyebrows merged once more.

Echthrós laughs, a genuine laugh.

"It brings me great pride, but I do not enjoy all of those eyes gazing upon you." His tone is dark and indecipherable. "How awfully vain, Echthrós." You replied, not breaking his gaze. "You are mine, all the same, no matter your complaints." He jokes.

"Perhaps," you paused.

He presses your lips together, your tongues battling for dominance as he pulls your hair - urging you to open your mouth further.

Your stomach rumbles uncomfortably, shying away from his touch.

You pull away from the kiss.

"I must find our son." You gave him a soft smile, pressing a tender kiss to his cheek and sprinting away before he is able to respond.

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Relief washes over your figure as you see the sight of Legolas playing with a wooden horse, seated upon the carpeted floors of Lord Celebrimbor. "My lord," you quickly greeted before sitting on the floor beside your son and Lord Celebrimbor.

"I do not mean to impose, but I have no elfling of my own and Legolas has been a calming presence," Celebrimbor chuckles while Legolas leans on him for balance.

Your heart softens at the sight of your son. A shining beacon in a world corrupted by darkness. "It is an honor, my lord." You answered.

Legolas continues cooing.

" - How old is he?" Celebrimbor asks with interest.

"A year old," you smiled.

A year filled with happiness. A year of your existence having meaning. Legolas feels like the sunlight giving you a warm embrace, and you'd give the entire world for him, no journey too perilous, no island out of reach. It is a mother's love, you tell yourself.

"No doubt he will grow up to be a warrior," Celebrimbor compliments.

Someone clears their throat from behind you.

"Lord Celebrimbor," Elrond Peredhel raises his voice to speak, his eyes trailing back and forth between the Lord of Eregion and you. "Ah, I am afraid that our conversation must be cut short, my lady." Celebrimbor is gentle in returning your elfling in your arms.

Legolas scowls for a second before smiling as he sees your face.

You rise. Your posture is straight, and elegant like a princess. You give the herald a thin-lipped smile, reserved for guests.

"This is Lady Danaë, the wife of one of my smiths. Lady Danaë, he is Lord Elrond Peredhel, the herald of King Gil-Galad." Celebrimbor introduces and you give the herald a slight bow.

You have heard whispers about Lord Elrond, they say that he is the brightest and cleverest of all elves. Seldom does he open his mouth to speak, but when he does - it shakes the entire realm. "It is a pleasure to meet you, my lord." You greeted.

"Likewise," the elf replied - your courtesy and grace not lost on him. He finds it uncharacteristic for a woman of your stature to possess such vibrance, but then again, that intelligent glint in your eyes makes him believe that you are one of the Sindar. A clever race.

"Lord Celebrimbor, we are needed in the council room," Elrond informs. "Lady Danaë, my wife and sons are in the tea room, perhaps your elfling would enjoy being in their presence." The elf invites with a kind smile, a smile as gentle as summer breeze. "It would be an honor," you accepted his invitation.

Lately, it seems like it would be a honor are the only words that escape your tongue. Eregion is beautiful but being here suffocates you - you long to see the trees, the rivers, and the forests.

"Lady Celebrian will not join our meeting?" Celebrimbor frowns.

Elrond gives a slight chuckle.

"The both of us agreed that she'd sit this conversation. The Lady of the Woodland Realm remains unfound and..." Elrond continues but Celebrimbor raises a hand to stop him from sharing more.

"If you will excuse me," you took that as your queue to leave.

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ELROND

Celebrimbor shoots him a heavy glare.

The Lord of Eregion has always been the one to keep things private. He seldom shares information like these to the general public, but something in Elrond's heart pushed him to speak. There is something about you that feels familiar - and you are the first elf that he hears to have been named Danaë, no elf-family follows those naming rules.

Elrond presses a hand on his forehead.

What am I talking about? He asks himself.

What is he going to say next? That Lady Danaë is the long-missing Woodland Princess? These thoughts of his are nothing but baseless conspiracies spoken by a sleep-deprived tongue. "It is a great problem." Celebrimbor opens his mouth to speak.

Elrond tilts his head.

The elves of the Woodland Realm keep to themselves. Elrond has only been able to speak to the Prince once in his entire lifetime, and it was on the matter of trade, which is hardly representative of the Prince's true nature. He knows that the Prince speaks in a cold and detached manner, only bringing forth agreements where the Woodland Realm holds the upper hand in, but Elrond will not make the mistake of assuming things about the elf.

Thranduil as opposed to Glorfindel does not dabble in witty jokes, nor does he approach danger with a calm hand, but Thranduil - in his blunt intelligence is able to see through everything, to see plainly through someone's purpose, which is why he is always sent to discuss trades with King Erenion. What Elrond cannot understand is how the Prince was unable to see through Sauron's guise?

Or mayhaps, the fault lies in Elrond for placing the prince on such a high pedestal.

He knows that the Prince fights because he has a thing to protect, much like Elrond in that regard, and that is why he empathizes... Elrond knows that if this were to happen to his own wife, then there would be no place in the entire world that would be able to keep Celebrian away from him. He almost breathes a sigh of relief knowing that his wife is sitting a mere wall away, alive, breathing.

He almost bites his tongue in punishment for thinking that way.

"The Woodland Princess is yet to be found. Goodness knows what Sauron has done to her - what he is capable of doing to our kind." Celebrimbor speaks openly this time. "Prince Thranduil is certain that his wife remains alive, but I believe that is the least of our problems." Elrond takes a step forward, his eyes cast on the floor as he says this in a soft whisper: "The elven princess was with a child."

And suddenly the room's atmosphere thickens.

The elven race has always held their elflings in the highest regard, all sworn to protect every elfling regardless of race or the sins of their parents. Children are pure, filled with no malice, to hurt them would mean directly hurting Eru Illuvatar. "I can only imagine the chaos of the Woodland Realm," Celebrimbor takes a step backwards.

Elrond vividly remembers his own childhood, with him and his brother orphaned in their parents' search of the Silmarils, he once expected death at the hands of his captors. But, to his surprise, Maglor and Maedhros' hearts mellowed at the sight of the twins. They were spared because of their innocence, because of the kindness that still remained in his adoptive fathers' hearts.

Even those ensnared by the darkness falter at the sight of babes.

So, if Sauron has been proven to raise a hand against an elfling, then that only proves that his heart is dark and that his soul is lost.

"Which is why we should make haste, there is a council waiting for us." Elrond reminds.

"Let us make haste indeed," Celebrimbor nodded.

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Celebrimbor and Elrond entered the meeting chambers. The atmosphere was heavy and filled with grief. "I hope that we did not take too long, Lord Galion." Elrond apologizes while locking the door behind him. Every second counts during moments like these. Galion only gives them a thin-lipped smile watching as Celebrimbor finds his place at the head of the table.

"Lord Galion was able to have an audience with King Gil-Galad, but the circumstances were far too soon and Eregion is too far to call upon such urgent council," Elrond explains, informing the Lord of Eregion that this problem has already reached the ears of the High King. "- and your arrival here could only mean that you believe Sauron to be within my halls?" Celebrimbor raises an eyebrow.

Galion remains composed.

"Sauron could be anywhere, my lord." The man answers. "- I am here on the matters of our elvenprincess who was taken from our halls." Galion maintains his neutral tone, but his eyes betray him, behind his eyes Elrond could see a man - a brother, even, who has lost a sister.

Lord Celebrimbor leans on his chair, deep in thought.

"If you will allow me to ask, Lord Galion, what are your plans to retrieve your princess? Why did Sauron take her in the first place?" Celebrimbor inquires bluntly, as would a man of his stature. Elrond's eyebrows merged together in curiosity, this question had been bothering him for quite a time now - but it was not appropriate to ask an elf of the Woodland Realm that question given his stature... and Elrond supposes that he has the decorum to not ask that question regardless.

"I will answer the first question. Gorthaur is known to have powers of disguise, are there any new visitors in Eregion? Are there elves that have ventured from far lands and have just recently returned? The elven princess has an elfling, and according to our healers, the babe is already born. Do you have any visitors with babes that we should know of?" Galion inquires and Elrond clenches his fist.

Lady Danaë. He whispers in the back of his mind. It seems like Thranduil is not the only person capable of seeing through spells. Elrond is about to answer the question but Celebrimbor gives him a stare, one that tells him to back down - that they should discuss this first. The glance is not lost on Galion and he takes a sharp breath.

"There is someone?" Lord Galion insists.

"We know our people, Lord Galion, but I thank you for raising awareness of this problem. We will be taking measures to ensure that all our visitors are screened once more." Celebrimbor articulates.

Elrond's eyes trailed back and forth between Lord Galion and Celebrimbor. He is hiding something, Elrond says to himself.

But what could it be?

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CELEBRIAN

Needless to say, Lady Celebrian was fond of you.

You remind her of her own mother - with your golden curls and the light beyond your eyes. "I have never been fond of tea," you giggled while watching your son play with his newfound friends. "What?" Celebrian's eyes narrowed while she slurped some of her tea. "I used to like it in the past but the taste of it - it's earthy and it brings forth feelings that I cannot place a finger on," you breathed.

This longing for the forest has been plaguing your physical body, a longing so strong that the mere thought of the forest makes your eyes water. "What a poetic way to describe your aversion to tea," Celebrian snorts, standing up to hug Elrohir as he bumps his knee on one of the tables. "- are you a poet of some sort?" Celebrian asks.

"I wish," you scoffed. "- I make attempts at poetry but they pale in comparison to the real poets." You humbled.

Celebrian presses a kiss on Elrohir's forehead - and to your surprise, the elfling wobbles right into another game, as if he didn't just cry after bumping his knee a mere second ago. Celebrian smiles at your lingering gaze. "I apologize for my sons, they are exuberant, a trait that my husband swears they inherited from me." Celebrian rolls his eyes, but you know that she is fond of that compliment.

"They inherit their faces from their fathers, and their personalities from us." You reference a previous topic that you discussed.

Celebrian answers with a sigh.

Laughing as you both realize the truth of your statement.

In hindsight, Legolas looks so much like Echthrós, but at the same time not quite. There is a certain gentleness in your son's features, a slight tint in his cheeks, a softness that stood below his irises - features that did not come from you nor Echthrós.

"Legolas' father must be of the sindar." Celebrian muses.

"No, he is of the Silvan." You smiled.

"Oh," Celebrian is slightly taken aback. "- apologies, your son has a Sindar name and I assumed." The lady gracefully apologized.

Legolas, meaning green leaf.

"Yes, he does have a Sindar name." You winced feeling a headache begin to form. Before Lady Celebrian is about to open her mouth, an elf barges into the tea room - a strange aura following after him. Celebrian takes a deep breath, her eyes painted on the strange man.

"I apologize for intruding, my lady, but I require the council of my wife," Echthrós demands, not waiting for Lady Celebrian's approval. He grabs Legolas from the ground, and you are given the non-verbal cue to follow after him. "It has been a wonderful time, my lady. We should do this again." You gathered your skirts, before following after your husband like a shadow.

The twins watch as the strange man leaves with their new friend. Elladan yawns, walking towards his mother. "Naneth, who is he?" He inquires with the curiosity of a child. "He must be Legolas' ada, my sweet." Celebrian replies, still confused about the entire interaction.

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It was late at night when Elrond returned to their chambers. Lord Celebrimbor was gracious enough to provide them a chamber in the upper wing, away from the loud noises of the courtyard. Celebrian lay on the bed, reading a book that was illuminated by a single candle flickering on the nightstand. "You are early," Celebrian says sarcastically, pointing at their twin children slumbering on the bed.

Elladan was sprawled atop his father's pillow, and Elrohir was cuddling his brother's leg. Elrond takes a deep breath again, a reminder that this is what was stolen from the elven prince. Something that can be stolen from him if the darkness remains unvanquished. "I had a conversation with Lord Celebrimbor," Elrond reasons while lifting his tunic, replacing it with his nightrobes.

"What did you speak about?" Celebrian asks with concern.

"An ambassador from Eryn Galen warned us about possible visitors. Lord Celebrimbor made mention of Lady Danaë being his 'new' smith's wife." Elrond recalled the story to the best of his abilities, and his wife's eyebrows merged in deep thought.

"What is it that plagues your mind, my wife?" Elrond places a gentle hand on her shoulder, settling on the bed beside her (truly, only half of his bottom was sitting for his twins are infamous bed hoggers, much like their mother who has spent most of her life not sharing a bed with anyone). "Lady Danaë has been a comforting presence, but her husband is another story..." Celebrian speaks plainly.

As the scion of both Lord Celeborn and Lady Galadriel, there is an immense power that flows through Celebrian's veins. She could feel light flowing through Echthrós' figure, but in a way that felt crooked and untrue. A mere mimic of what there is supposed to be.

"I saw the way that he lifted Legolas in his arms, without a care. Well, at least not with care like a father is supposed to have." Celebrian defend, not wanting to point a finger at someone. "It is peculiar indeed, and the boy is just around the missing prince's age." Elrond connects the dots together.

Celebrian breathes deeply, it is a tragedy - a mother and a child...

"Legolas is a Sindar name." Celebrian points out.

Legolas, meaning green leaf.

"My mother says that Sauron's tricks are plenty. He is able to mimic such great light that only a creature of great power is able to see through his guise. I believe that our concerns are not misplaced. It would be best to talk to Lord Celebrimbor about this." Celebrian advised with true concern this time.

Elrond pressed a hand to his head. It didn't make any sense. Why would Sauron come to Eregion with a babe and a woman, knowing very well that a babe and a woman are missing? Why would he allow this Legolas to remain having that name, knowing very well that Legolas is a Sindar name? It didn't make any sense!

Celebrian looks upon Elrond with a soft stare.

Elrond shakes his head, "- you are right." He agrees.

There are only two outcomes from his accusation - either Lady Danaë is the missing Princess of the Woodland Realm, or they're both accusing the wrong person. Elrond wouldn't mind being the latter if it meant keeping someone safe.