The Unforgiven { Legolas x OC - LotR Fanfiction}

67. Namaarie!

Author's Note:

Warning: Concepts contained in this chapter include semi-labor scenes! ^_^

Disclaimers: I don't own any of the characters, places, names, etc. It all belongs to J.R.R. Tolkien and Peter Jackson.

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3020, August 29

Each contraction seized Ethir like a tidal wave, dragging her under, drowning her in agony that made the world vanish in a blur. With every surge, she swore this would be the last time—no more bonding, no more babies, no more Legolas. She squeezed her eyes shut, retreating inward, unwilling to acknowledge the world that continued spinning around her. Only one thought grounded her in those unbearable moments:

Legolas. That dazzling, infuriating, soon-to-be-dead Ellon was going to pay for this.

Her body was the battleground. Her mind the prison. And her patience, hanging by the thinnest thread.

Meanwhile, Legolas was in a prison of his own. One carved from helplessness and fear.

He paced, clenched his hands, whispered half-formed prayers to the Valar. He had fought battles, stared into the face of death, but nothing had prepared him for this—watching the woman he loved suffer, and being utterly powerless to ease it. The weight of fatherhood had settled on him slowly during the months, but now it crushed him with its full intensity. Fear. Hope. Awe. He could barely breathe.

And yet, even in that torment, he felt like the luckiest Ellon in Middle-earth.

In that room was his life—his wild, defiant, wickedly brilliant Ethir. And soon, a new heartbeat would join theirs.

Outside the birthing chamber, Thranduil was in his own strange purgatory. Torn between pride and panic, he paced like a caged lion—sometimes storming in, only to retreat again. Never in his immortal years had he felt so utterly out of control. Ethir, once "the Adaneth" he would gladly have banished, had long since earned a place in his heart. Though he'd never say it aloud, she had brought something back into their lives. Hope. Future. Legacy. And now, she was about to give him something even greater.

His first grandchild.

No words—not even thank you—could express the truth of what she had become to him. Ethir floated through pain so raw it unmade her. Only the firm voices of the healers, calling her back, gave her direction.

"It's time," someone whispered gently. "Push."

With a groan from deep in her chest, she obeyed. One push—and then, a blessed pause. The worst was already behind her. The fire of contractions dulled to the burn of crowning, and in that brief eternity, she felt the world contract to a single point.

And then—release.

A rush of warmth, a sharp gasp from the healer, and the newborn's first cry.

A boy.

Eyes barely opened, fists balled tight, and already stealing the breath from every soul in the room. He was the image of Legolas, with the faintest whisper of Thranduil's ancient strength. He filled the space like sunlight.

And Ethir forgot the pain. Forgot the curse she'd muttered under her breath. In that instant, as her son was laid upon her bare chest, she wept.

But it wasn't over.

Another jolt of pain seized her, and the room spun again. She screamed—again—and within minutes, a second cry filled the air.

A girl.