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sotwk · 9 months

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My gosh this is a very wild guess, but is Anariel the maiden in Rivendell in your WIP "The Only Gold"? [main clues I used: Anariel's birth year (fic must be set after TA 496), you mentioned that it was one of your WIP fics, she lived in Rivendell, golden/blonde hair (based on your face claim), Anariel is close to Arvellas and learned a lot from him (potentially including about the dwarves) and the she-elf in the fic knows Khuzdul

My dear friend, this was not a "wild guess", but rather some Sherlock Holmes level of investigative deduction! XD You are 100% correct! I am so impressed and flattered that you took the time to gather information and piece it together to present your proof! You must be really good at finding Easter Eggs from movie franchises.

Because of the "jumping all over the place" approach I have taken to writing out the SotWK AU of Thranduil's (and Middle-earth's) history, there are clues and Easter Eggs all over my stories about plot details that haven't been revealed yet. Mysteries like: Which Son of Fëanor is Maereth's grandfather? Who are the other First Age canons related/connected to Thranduil's family?

"The Only Gold" is my "Durins Live" fix-it fic, told mostly through the eyes of Fili and, as you have guessed, Anariel. It will run through an AU version of The Hobbit/BotFA events and explore the SotWK AU history and (broken) relationship that actually existed between Mirkwood and Erebor. All 3 Sons of Durin (Thorin, Fili and Kili) will live, but the question is how, and what role will Thranduil's family play in it?

Will Fili and Anariel fall in love and end up finally uniting the two kingdoms and races? (Grandpa Thranduil and Uncle Thorin are fighting over who gets to wring my neck first right now. *nervous laugh*) Honestly, the endgame of their relationship remains very fluid my head. (aka undecided) All I know is destiny foretold by the Elvenqueen herself will push these two beautiful blondes together.

Just a few additional notes about the lovely tidbits you picked up on regarding Anariel:

Her birth year: She is actually as close in age to her Uncle Legolas as Legolas is to his brother Mirion! But yes, Anariel was born about 500 years before the Greenwood started to darken, so she enjoyed some happy centuries of peace with her family.

Her life in Rivendell: Sadly, by the events of The Hobbit, her mother had become estranged from Thranduil, which caused Itarildë and Anariel to leave Mirkwood and reside in Rivendell for a period of time. (Aranion stayed because no one is more loyal to Thranduil than he; what a darling grandson!)

Her relation to Elrond: Anariel is a cousin by blood to Elrond. Elrond's paternal great-grandmother Elenwë is the sister of Elemírë (an OC), Anariel's paternal great-great-grandmother. Thus in the story, Elrond refers to her his "kin".

Her closeness to Arvellas and knowledge of the Dwarven culture: By the Third Age, no other Elf in Middle-earth could surpass Prince Arvellas in his knowledge of the Dwarves. For many centuries, he taught his dear niece nearly everything he knew about the Dwarven race, including Khuzdul. Arvellas foresaw he was not destined to live forever on Middle-earth, so he sought to pass on his knowledge to a worthy successor.

Her golden hair: The beauty of Anariel's golden hair is one to rival Galadriel's, due to her strong Vanyarin inheritance. (I mean, her name is "Daughter of the Sun"!) In the SotWK AU, Glorfindel is 3/4 Vanya, and he married the sister of Elenwë (wife of Turgon), who is full Vanya. I made some rough calculations which reveals Itarildë as 22% Vanya, higher than any canon elf left in Middle-earth in the Third Age, save for Glorfindel himself (if you accept my HC that he's part Vanya). So yes, that's why the Dwarves were stunned and mesmerized by the golden hair of Anariel; it likely carries some "magic" in it. I have a self-indulgent HC that Gloin and Gimli would have had heated debates over whose hair was more beautiful--Galadriel's or Anariel's.

Anyway, apologies for my rambling Anon (and everyone who made it this far)! I have a thousand SotWK headcanons in my head that need to be unloaded sometimes to release the pressure. XD.

Anon, I would really love to give you a prize (as I promised) from the Tumblr Mart, any badge of your choice... but if you're not comfortable revealing yourself, I completely understand. Another option would be sending me another Ask and letting me know of a writer/artist whom you want to support, and I will buy them some KoFi on your behalf. Please let me know! :) Thank you again for participating in my little Guessing Game, and for your wonderful support!

Tagging those have historically been interested: @aduialel @fizzyxcustard @lathalea @laneynoir @achromaticerebus @auttumnsayshi @friendofthefellowshipsnerdblog @blueberryrock @scyllas-revenge @glassgulls @ladyweaslette @heilith @absentmindeduniverse @heranintomyknife23times @asianbutnotjapanese @a-world-of-whimsy-5 @lilidurin @beekieboo @albionscastle @jezzibee @g-m-kaye

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sotwk · 5 months

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Greenleaf's Tree (child!Legolas & Thranduil fic)

For the THAUC Event by @fellowshipofthefics

Artwork by event partner @thatonetimetraveller

Summary: Six-year-old Legolas goes on royal progress with Thranduil for the first time and learns more about the sort of king his father truly is.

Event Prompt: "What is Legolas' favorite memory of growing up with Thranduil as his father?"

Word count: 2.8k

Content: Growing up, Family Fluff, Father-Son Bonding, Good Parent Thranduil, Thranduil's kingship, Greenwood the Great, the Golden Age of the Woodland Realm, Pre-Mirkwood/Dol Guldur, Easter Eggs for the SotWK AU

Rating: General Audiences

Warnings: None

To Read on AO3: Link

Greenleaf’s Tree

Third Age 248 July 10

The Woodland Realm, Greenwood the Great

Legolas was early. Ninniel had tried to warn him; the King’s instructions had been for the prince to be dressed and ready to depart at the main courtyard an hour past sunrise. But the elfling had scarcely slept a wink the previous night (again, against his father’s instructions), and had pounced on his nursemaid to rush through the process of helping him into his brand new clothes, made especially for the occasion. Afterwards he scarfed down a few mouthfuls of his eggs and hash before sprinting through the halls across the awakening palace with a half-eaten bun in his fist.

The skies were just beginning to lighten in the burgeoning dawn when Legolas descended the grand stone stairway of the palace entrance. He was not the only early arrival! The elfling took a giant leap off the last three steps and skipped towards the tall, imposing figure of the Crown Prince of the Woodland Realm--whose back was turned to him as he conversed with one of the guards in the king’s escort.

Prince Mirion felt the polite tug on the hem of his tunic and turned his head to look down, down, at the elf-child that barely came up to his hip. “Ah, and there he is! Bright and early, just as I expected!”

“Still not early enough to beat you,” Legolas chirped, ducking the broad hand that attempted to ruffle his hair. “Good morning, Feren!” he sang out to the young soldier in his brother's company.

Feren's eyebrows rose as he lifted his head from his bow of greeting to the little prince. “His Highness knows my name?”

“Certainly, you are Celuwen's twin! She talks about you a lot and she is ever so nice to me!” Feren’s sister was indeed, in Legolas’s opinion, the nicest of the scribes in the royal library, save for Arvellas, and the only one not to stifle a look of exasperation whenever he would pop into their sacred space to ask about picture books. Celuwen was also the only one who took the time to seek out for him books that contained mostly illustrations, instead of sniffing that “his Highness must take the time to practice his reading!”.

“Well, now there are two of you going on the Progress for the first time,” Mirion said, clapping his hands on Legolas’s skinny shoulders. “You will both see there is nothing to it, and I believe you shall find it to be the most pleasant, almost relaxing, trip.”

“It is a high honor to finally be appointed, sire,” Feren said stoutly, his chest puffing with pride. “Rest assured that the King and Prince shall have my utmost protection on their travels.”

Mirion smiled. “The promotion is well-deserved, perhaps even delayed in its coming. I have no doubt you are up to the task.”

It did not take long for the courtyard to fill up with more people. First, seven other soldiers trickled in to complete the escort, and with them their mounts. Then, the rest of Legolas’s brothers arrived, along with several members of the royal court fulfilling their duty to tradition. By the time King Thranduil himself descended the steps with Queen Maereth on his arm, the entire palace staff had assembled at the periphery to see their lord off.

Legolas had said his goodbyes to his family the previous night, so that he could express his emotions in private, especially with his Ammë, in whose embrace he shed some tears. The Progress would not be his first time away from home, but would be his first prolonged time apart from her.

“Do you remember the two things I asked for, my Greenleaf?” the Queen whispered as she bent low to give her youngest one last hug.

Legolas nodded vigorously. “To always stay near the escort and to take care of Ada!” He planted a kiss on her fair cheek. “I shall do both, Ammë--I promise!”

The elfling trotted behind his father to the middle of the procession, where Alvar, the great King’s Elk, awaited between his two wary wranglers. “Up you get,” his Ada said, and hoisted him into the special dual seat upon the beast’s broad back. With a billowing swish of his hunter-green cloak, the Elvenking effortlessly leapt into the saddle and circled his arms around his son to take the reins.

The lead rider blew the heralding horn, and as the sound pierced clear through the forest air, their party headed out. Legolas turned back to wave at the gathered crowd until they vanished from his line of sight. As Bar Lasgalen’s ivy-covered walls sank behind the sentry line of ancient oaks, the reality of his adventure ahead firmly sank in, setting off a rush of tingles from head to toes. It would just be him and his Ada on the road, traveling together, for an entire month!

At only six years of age, he was much younger than any of his brothers had been when they went on their first King's Progress. Legolas knew his parents had gone over many discussions about his readiness for the Crown’s most anticipated summer tradition, ever since he started declaring at the family dinner table that he “will tour with Ada next year”. Apparently none of his brothers had been smart enough to just say that they wanted to go. Now there he was.

Legolas had not expected, however, to be sent on the journey alone with the King, without his mother or even a single brother to act as a buffer between them. Not that he thought one was necessary, but he had never enjoyed such bountiful access to his father before!

“How long until we are there, Ada?” the elfling asked, after holding in the question for what already felt like half the day.

“We are perhaps an hour away still,” Thranduil responded. “From Rowanhill. Our first stop, if you recall.”

“Yes, I remember!” Legolas drew himself up proudly, confident that he memorized, in order of scheduled visit, the names of all ten Greenwood villages listed on their itinerary. “But there is no mention of Rowanhill at all in my book, so I could not learn anything about it beforehand.”

“Book? What book?”

“It is in my pack…” The child leaned over in the saddle and pointed to the four riders to their rear, whose horses also carried the personal items they had packed for the trip. One gesture from the King, and the guard bearing the prince’s belongings rode forward to allow him to procure the wanted item.

Legolas flipped through the leather-bound tome while his father peered over his shoulder at the pages filled with colorful illuminations. “Celuwen found this for me,” he explained. “She said it names and describes almost all the towns and villages in the realm--except for Rowanhill and a few others.”

“That is because Rowanhill is younger than even your six summers, ion nin .” Thranduil smiled. “The village was raised only this past year. I shall be seeing it with eyes as fresh as yours.”

The rest of their hour in the saddle passed by much more quickly, as they went over Legolas’s discoveries from the book together. The young prince might not have realized they had reached their destination were it not for the convoy that emerged from the trees to meet them on their trail through the woods. A mixed cluster of Greenwood Elves approached the small procession, all welcoming smiles and low bows before their king.

“You honor us with your visit, Arathawar,” said the evident leader of the group, who later introduced himself as Narchon. “We are delighted by the opportunity to show you what we have built here.”

Rowanhill itself appeared to be as cheerily unobtrusive as its residents. A few dozen cottages squatted about the slopes of a patchily grassy knoll, but the people milled about the open spaces, with everyone's attention focused on the royal procession's arrival.

As Thranduil and Legolas dismounted Alvar, a crowd converged around them, while giving a wide berth to the imposing elk-steed. The abrupt intrusion into their space almost frightened Legolas, who had never seen so many people come this close to his father all at once before. But he felt his Ada’s strong hand on his shoulder, keeping him guarded and close to his side, and it eased the elfling’s discomfort.

Rapid and raucous chatter flew above his head as the Elves of Rowanhill spoke over one another to greet their king and vie for his attention. Legolas wondered at the guard’s lack of intervention, until he caught a glimpse of his father’s face and heard his booming laugh, which made clear what he thought about this behavior. It was vastly different from what Legolas was accustomed to observing at court, where only a few people had appointments and waited to be called forward for their turn to speak before the throne and council. And at the palace court, no one touched the king.

Gradually, the initial excitement subsided. The village leader Narchon took his place at the king’s right side, and a proper tour of the settlement began. As the grown-ups droned on about household counts and housing, community infrastructures and activities, and many other words Legolas frequently overheard but poorly understood, the young elf’s interest in the conversation dropped to zero. His eyes continued to roam their surroundings, searching for something else to capture his interest.

There were no other children around, he noted with disappointment. None his age or close to it. This observation might have baffled him had his mother not previously explained that some Greenwood communities had much fewer elfings, and outside their kingdom elf babes could be as rare as dragons.

Finally, Legolas’s roving eyes landed on a sudden peculiarity. Nestled within a copse of beeches, a thatched building the length of three houses stood apart from the rest of the village structures. Surrounding it, with no identifiable pattern or design, stone figures of varying shapes, sizes, and hues stood out on the grass like a bizarrely decorated garden.

“Legolas?”

The princeling blinked up at the questioning gaze of his father, surprised to once again have his notice. He had been tailing the adults blindly until the mystery building caused him to stop in his tracks, and that quickly regained their attention. Completely unabashed, he thrust out his arm full-length and pointed.

“What is over there?”

Narchon stepped forward to answer. “That is our guild hall, Your Highness. It is where we gather to work.”

Legolas pivoted to stare back and forth between the elder elf and the garden of stone curiosities. “Are you an artist?”

“A sculptor, Your Highness. If you would care to be specific.” Narchon beamed. “Sculpting is our trade here at Rowanhill.”

An entire village of sculptors? A grin lit up Legolas’s entire face. The book described village guilds of builders and smiths, of huntsmen and herdsmen, even of cask makers and candle makers. But the only sculptor he ever met had been a Noldorin lord who came all the way from Imladris to deliver a Begetting Day present for the Queen from Lady Celebrian.

“If you would like, sire, I can arrange for someone to conduct a demonstration for the Prince, and perhaps instruct him in some of our rudiments. It may be an enjoyable diversion for him while you conduct your audiences.”

Legolas froze, realizing just in that moment that he had run straight to the guild hall without seeking pardon or permission, overcome by his desire to view the collection of sculptures up close. There were warriors in heroic poses, eagles in flight, stags in full gallop, and giant insects the size of ponies, many of them painted in lifelike color! But hearing Narchon’s gentle suggestion, and the sight of the adults strolling down the rise to catch up to him, called the elfling back to the reality that he had neglected his manners.

Peering up guiltily at his father, Legolas was yet again surprised by the absence of disapproval on the King’s face. Rather, Thranduil was studying the stone creations with open interest, and when he caught his son’s eye, the edge of his mouth curled in a smile.

“That is a marvelous proposal, Narchon. Except I request a demonstration for both Legolas and I.” Thranduil nodded and wagged a finger at the sculpture in front of him, depicting a fish leaping through a curling wave. “I too would like to see how wonders such as these can be wrought.”

With great speed did they hasten to fulfill the King’s request, and in no time at all, father and son were given a workstation inside the sculptors’ hall. Thranduil removed his fine embroidered cloak to instead cover his silver tunic with an apron made from a stiff fabric that resembled a grain sack. It took Legolas several minutes to stop gaping at the strange sight, and he pondered whether this was something his brothers had never seen before, or they just somehow never bothered to share it with him.

Not one but three of the best guild members volunteered to do a demonstration for them. The royals were then given their own mounds of clay so they might attempt to replicate the completed example--a straightforward representation of a beech tree, just like the ones growing outside the hall and throughout Rowanhill.

Legolas chewed on the tip of his tongue as he thrust his fingers into the soft, cakey brown substance, pulling and pressing and rolling the clay in an effort to mould it into a trunk-like shape. After a while, and only when he was moderately satisfied with his progress, he looked over to check how his father was faring.

Legolas watched, transfixed, as his father’s large elegant hands glided over the unmistakable likeness of a small tree. Streaks of clay coated his apron and stained his arms all the way up to his elbows, and at closer scrutiny even small splatters of it dotted his taut cheeks and furrowed brow. Legolas could recall seeing only one other time his Ada might be described as looking “dirty”, and it was during a private sparring exercise with eldest brothers. Nothing at all like this situation he had never expected to witness on their public tour.

“That is very good, Your Highness.” Narchon praised, bending over the workbench to examine the child’s work in progress. “A natural high talent is evident in your labors.”

“Thank you.” Legolas beamed, trying not to look overly pleased with himself. “But how are we to get that bright green color on the leaves?”

“Once your tree is fully moulded to your liking, we will bake it in our ovens and then paint it.”

“Or,” Thranduil spoke suddenly from his side of the table. “We can try something else.” He motioned for Narchon to lean in so he could whisper something in his ear.

Legolas caught a glimpse of confusion on the sculptor’s face before he turned away to leave the room and retrieve whatever the King had asked him for. He returned promptly with a shallow pot of what looked like a mixture of common soil and mulch, dug straight up from the forest floor.

“What is that for?” Legolas asked.

“A little test for myself,” the King said, scooping up a fistful of the loose dirt. “To see if I have not forgotten what I have been taught.”

Perched on the very edge of his stool, Legolas watched with bated breath as his father moulded the soil into the slender, yet still leafless branches of his soft clay tree. A deep, melodious humming emanated from the King’s throat, before his lips moved to form words, a song from an ancient language Legolas could not discern.

As the singing continued, Thranduil slowly moved his hands away from the clay figure. Legolas’s eyes widened as he noticed the branches quiver and shift on their own volition. And then finally, slowly, verdant leaves began to sprout from the dead clay, unfurling and multiplying and growing until they transformed the naked branches into full bowers.

“Most… extraordinary , Your Grace.” Narchon croaked, amid cries of delight and amazement from the other craftsmen watching in the hall. “Yet with those leaves, we cannot place your sculpture in the fires. The clay will not properly set and will remain fragile.”

“Then it will be fragile,” Thranduil said simply. “But it will be alive. For a time, at least. And in exchange for its mortality it shall bear real green leaves, fitting for Prince Greenleaf’s tree.”

“It is wondrous , Ada!” Legolas burst out with a sharp clap of his hands and an un-princely whoop. “It can make a perfect gift for Ammë. She will love it! And won’t she be so surprised?!”

“She will most certainly love it. But as for being surprised,” Thranduil chuckled and swiped the back of his hand across his cheek, leaving yet another smear of dirt on his regal face. “Who do you think taught me this little bit of artistic enchantment?”

“Now…” He lifted another handful of dirt from the pot and held it out to his awestruck son. “If you are ready, I think I would like to pass the knowledge on.”

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