Alternatively: Of oaths with hearts and swords
A/N : In this tale, my dear reader, I grant you the body of Ithilwen Lionheart- a vanguard of the Elvenking, an estranged Dunedain vagabond. A mortal warrior with hair of autumn wildfire and eyes of watery turquoise,
Shall you wish to take in a different form, that you shall- for this dream is yours to conjure and merely for your humble Minstrel to tell.
[ Work Text: ]
There's a calm surrender
To the rush of day
When the heat of a rolling wave
Can be turned away
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The clash of metal against metal rang throughout the battlefield as shields met axes, daggers crashed against chest plates, and swords pierced through chain mails.
Haunting battle cries of orc, men, and elves echoed and joined the weaponries in a chaotic pandemonium that had painted so vividly the memories that scarred the hearts of whichever few had survived The War of the Last Alliance.
The air laid thick with the smell of Death and smoke as the lands were bathed in crimson carnage and the blood of more than a half of the elven-kind of Mirkwood- that of the fallen, the wounded, and those whose souls are beyond salvation.
It is in this battle, the Battle of Dagorlad, that the Mirkwood elves were faced with a foe that had taken the life of their king and a great many of their kin.
They had achieved naught but blood and death upon themselves, naught but the coronation of a young prince who had watched his father die before him in battle.
A prince whose childhood had been lost to war and had grown to fit the crown of a wise king way beyond his years, a king that had led what few remains of his people through land and forest in search of a place to call their home.
A king with no ring of power. No jewel to pronounce his kingship. One that leads his people and cares of his kingdom with naught more but sheer will, industry, strength and wisdom.
"Take arms, Ithilwen!" a deep voice bellows in Sindar and she follows the command, the bearer having delivered her time and again that her heart and mind recognizes it so. Eyes of the brightest turquoise snaps open, pulled out from recollection of tales of old and back into the time where she existed.
Where the flames burned in bright scarlet and taunting oranges and yellows as it consumed her vision and reduced the woods she'd grown to cherish into nothing more but splinters and char and ashes.
Where her vision was blurred by grey smoke and embers that danced amongst the falling leaves as if to mock her fate before searing the skin on her face and setting the ground ablaze.
A time where she's fighting in a battle of her own under kindled trees and anguished cries, armed with little else but her short swords, and whatever is left of her battered armor and her wearying strength.
Laying witness to her comrades' brutal massacre, the number of what she fell of their wretched enemies seemed nothing but a pale attempt at what would not even pass as honor-
-not so of the king's most trusted warrior.
Ithilwen finds herself unable to accept such a fate. Not when she sees their ringless king remain as he had always did. Leading his armies unto War with every will to emerge victorious with yet another battle scar to recount solemn memories of what honor had once again obtained, and what honor had once again lost.
Swinging swords that glinted of elvish intricacies, the warrior charged forwards.
Their elves perished as their lands did, little by little they met their end in the most grotesque of imageries and yet they still tarry,
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Legolas/Thranduil Imagines
Fanfiction[Editing in progress : 🔸indicator for completed edits] Compilation of different imagines involving the reader/other character and Legolas Greenleaf / Thranduil Oropherion of LOTR and The Hobbit. Plots could be linear. Or not.
