"My mother died there. My father does not speak of it. There is no grave... no memory." - Legolas, The Hobbit: The Battle of the Five Armies

The Prince of the Woodland Realm grew swiftly. The laughter of the happy, healthy child bathed the grim halls with light and mirth. Despite the gathering darkness threatening their home, it had little power over the young prince. Legolas knew nothing of what Mirkwood used to be, therefore he could not miss it. Faenmîr both grieved and rejoiced for it. 

The people adored their prince. Wearied soldiers perked up at the glimpse of the elfling running through the halls squealing as a parent or servant gave chase. Smiles spread across pale, grimy faces at the child's infectious laughter. 

The little prince had the Woodland Realm Guard wrapped around his finger. If he wanted up, a soldier could not refuse. If he wanted a treat, he and one of the staff would sneak into the kitchens to swipe a tart or two. If he wanted a song, the Woodland Guard would sit in a circle with him and sing tales of their victories while Legolas listened with wide eyes and an open mouth. 

Faenmîr cherished the moments her former companions doted upon their prince, but the ones she treasured in her heart were with her husband and son. As often as he could, Thranduil stole hours away from ruling the kingdom to spend with Legolas. She often found them in the garden where the Shadow cannot reach, walking and talking or clashing two sticks together as if in a great battle. Watching them, Faenmîr's smile glowed brighter than any star in the night sky. 

  "Good, ion nín," praised Thranduil when Legolas thwacked his stick with his own. The elfling's pink tongue peaked between his lips in concentration. "Now plant your feet firmly in a stance like this."

He demonstrated by parting his feet and bending his knees slightly, holding out his makeshift sword at ready. Legolas mimicked him. Thranduil paused to nudge the elfling's stance a bit wider before returning to position. Facing each other with determined blue eyes, the same serious expression, and the golden light of afternoon reflecting in their blond hair, there was no mistaking they were father and son. Faenmîr nearly wept for her love of them. 

  Thranduil nodded in approval. "Now when I attack—" he swung his stick at the elfling's shoulder slow enough for the young one to block. The impact made a loud crack, but the child did not waver—"you will stand strong. Do you understand, ion?"

  "Yes, ada," answered Legolas with a nod, beaming up at the father he adored. 

The pride on Thranduil's face shone brightly as he touched the elfling's soft cheek gently. He glanced in her direction, knowing she had been there all along. 

  "Again, Legolas," he ordered and returned to ready position, eyes sparkling with mirth. "Your naneth is watching."

Legolas spared a moment to wave at her before facing his father. Then they began again, one a master and the other a youth at play. 

 * * * 

If times were different, Faenmîr would raise her son innocent of evil. Alas, it could not be so, and Faenmîr would count herself a poor mother if she did not teach him the ways of the Elven Guard. Thranduil taught him the sword, she taught him the bow.

 "Further back, Legolas. That's it." 

Kneeling beside him in the dirt, Faenmîr guided his hand on the string to the corner of his mouth. A drop of perspiration trickled down his temple. His arms quivered and his brows narrowed in concentration. Even the Silvan may deem him too young to begin his training, but these dark times preyed upon the meek. As long as Silvan warrior blood—dangerous and wild—flowed through her veins, she will not have Legolas an easy victim. 

  "It's too heavy, nana."

  "It is now, ion nín. With practice, your arms will become strong and drawing the string will be as natural to you as breathing. Now anchor your string, Legolas." 

His draw had weakened, so she helped him reset. A breeze blew through their hair, catching wisps of blond and red-brown. 

  "Feel the wind, penneth. Adjust your aim accordingly." With a gentle nudge, Faenmîr positioned the elfling's shot, accounting for the lighter and shorter arrow crafted for him. 

  "Now breathe. When you are ready, release the arrow midst the exhale."

Faenmîr sat back on her heels and waited. 

Legolas breathed in and out. His small chest rose and fell. 

The arrow soared from the tiny bow and smacked into the target. Legolas' fingers had not left the string smoothly, throwing off his aim. The arrow quivered a few inches to the right of the center.

Legolas lowered his bow and frowned in disappointment. 

  "Good shot, ion nín."

  "But I missed!"

  Faenmîr nodded. "Yes. A missed shot can sway the balance between life and death for you, your companion, or your enemy. That is why we train." She rested a hand on his shoulder. "But it takes courage and confidence to release an arrow. Every shot decides the fate of who lives and who dies. You have the will to wield the bow, now you must practice until you cannot miss. Do you understand, penneth?"

  "Yes, nana," Legolas replied, encouraged yet somber.

  Faenmîr smiled and gazed up at the darkening sky. "Come. Collect your arrow and check the shaft for damage. We shall return to the training grounds tomorrow."

 * * * 

Despite the ongoing war, the royal family was a happy one. Loathed were the days of separation when King Thranduil led the Elven Guard into battle, leaving his wife and son behind. In another life, Faenmîr would join him, but those days were behind her. Thranduil's duty was to lead and inspire. Her duty was to love and protect their son and heir. Though her warrior nature missed the fight, she would not trade her new responsibility for all of Arda. 

The long campaigns should have been mere blinks of an eye to her. Now they dragged to eternity through the eyes of her son, for Legolas had not yet lived enough years to feel the effects of his immortality. To console the distressed elfling, Faenmîr accompanied him on walks in the gardens. Watching him run and play and laugh, her own spirits lifted. 

Faenmîr lifted her face to the warm Sun and relished Her caress. Anor's brilliance was a rarity in Mirkwood, allowed to penetrate the canopy only where the power of the Wood Elves resisted back the Shadow. The borders of the Woodland Realm preserved the last beauty in a once magnificent forest. Faenmîr learned to cherish it. 

Legolas was crouching by the Forest River, observing intently for fish in the current. He was perfectly still, a far cry from before. His pink tongue poked out from between his lips, an endearing sign of his extreme focus. 

The elfling's adventures took him far from the caverns, dragging Faenmîr and their escort along. The queen did not mind. Anor was still high in the sky and the walk was pleasant. She laughed to herself at the sight of her curious son. 

Then a noise so soft she hardly heard it above the rush of the River caught her ear. Faenmîr's attention snapped towards the sound, amusement gone. Warrior instincts overcame the queen as her hand dropped to the hilt of her sword. 

Their escort noticed her sudden seriousness.

  "Rían nín? What is it?" one of the Elven Guard, Awartha, inquired. 

  "I heard something," she replied, dropping her voice to nearly a whisper. 

She peered into the bushes. They rustle in the wind, but there is no animal, no enemy. Nothing. Still Faenmîr stalled her ease. She will not lower her guard so quickly, not with Legolas here. 

A sharp cry startled her and she whirled around to see an orc fall upon one of the guards. After him, many more orcs burst from the bushes and trees, surrounding the small party. 

Faenmîr immediately sprung to her son, shielding him as her sword slid out of its scabbard. The Elven Guard are quick to follow, protecting their monarch and their prince. 

The orcs attack viciously. They snarl and snap their teeth like wild animals. They close the distance, forcing the elves to abandon their arrows in favor of blade work. 

Faenmîr thrusted her sword into the chest of an advancing orc. Black blood oozed down the blade to the hilt. She felt Legolas' tiny fists clinging to her clothes. She felt him bury his face into her leg. She felt him shaking. One hand reached back to console him while the other wielded destruction upon their attackers. 

 The Sivan elves fought valiantly, yet Faenmîr's confidence wained. For every orc they slew, more emerged to take its place. One by one, her soldiers fell to the crude weapons of their enemies. 

  "Legolas," she began as her sword sent a knife flying out of a clawed grip. Her tone was calm yet gravely serious. "We must retreat. Run. I will follow you."

The elfling nodded against her leg and she felt him leave her. Now the queen could fight untethered. She swung her sword in a wide arc, scattering the orcs. Without turning her back on her enemies, Faenmîr began to move away from the battle towards her son. Some of the remaining Guards are using arrows again. Awartha takes down two orcs charging at his queen by shots in the back.

  "Go, rían nín! Protect him. We will hold them off."

Faenmîr nodded to Awartha, knowing all too well it would be the last time. She can't dwell on that now. She's a soldier. Legolas needed her. 

Her heart pounded against her chest as she searched the woods. There were too many places for a small elfling to hide. It served as both a blessing and a curse.

  "Legolas!" she called as loud as she dared. She moved silently, tuning her ears for a less silent elfling. "Legolas!"

  "Nana!" Her son tumbled out of a bush, his green and brown garments having camouflaged him. Twigs and leaves stuck out of his golden hair. Mud streaked his pale face. There was a scratch above his eye from a stray branch or a weapon, she wasn't certain.

He ran into his mother's arms. Faenmîr released her anxiety in a sigh, holding her son tightly. 

The orcs had forced them even farther away from the fortress. The enemy had infiltrated their sanctuary, and the queen and prince were alone. 

  Faenmîr sent a prayer to the heavens. Oh Elbereth, protect us. 

Her pointed ear twitched. Orcs were closing in, no longer hiding the loud stomp of their boots and their tearing through foliage. 

Faenmîr released her son and placed her hands on his shoulders, gazing into his eyes steadily. 

  "My son, follow my instructions. Go back into hiding and stay still and silent. Do not move or make a sound, no matter what you see or hear. Only come out when an Elven Guard or your father tells you to. Do you understand, ion nín?"

Legolas nodded, frightened tears pooling in his eyes. She kissed him on the cheek and wiped away his tears with her thumb. 

  "Melin gin."

  "Melin gin."

Legolas crawled back into his hiding spot and disappeared from view. Satisfied, Faenmîr squared her shoulders and rose to her full height. Stabbing her blood-slick blade into the ground, the warrior removed the bow from her back and quickly strung it before nocking an arrow. 

That's all the time she had to spare as orcs descended upon her. They howled gleefully at the lone queen, confident of the ease of their hunt. Faenmîr knew she was lost, but as long as Legolas drew breath, her fight was not done. 

  "Take the She-elf," one of them bellowed. 

They wanted her alive, Faenmîr realized. They will not find her easy prey. 

The former soldier released three arrows in quick succession, eliminating three targets. They moved to surround her before attacking all at once. Faenmîr killed any orcs close to her hidden son, leaving herself open to attack.

A knife sliced over her ribs. An arrow hit her knee. An iron-clad fist collided with her cheek.

The queen collapsed to the ground. She bit her tongue to protect Legolas from her screams. She could hear him breathing, harsh and panicked. She prayed the orcs did not inherit elven hearing from their ancestors. She was so close to him. She dared not look. 

Cruel hands stripped her of her weapons. A burly orc squatted down beside her, their commander by his size and air of authority. He held a knife in his hand. Faenmîr could not hold back her scream as the knife plunged into her shoulder.

  "Where is the elfling?" the orc growled. He twisted the blade. Crimson blood gushed from the wound, over the knife and spilling onto the ground.

  "I'll never tell you," spat Faenmîr through gritted teeth. 

  The orc huffed, nonchalant. "No matter. Our mission is complete." To his fellow orcs, he barked, "Drag her back to headquarters."

 * * * 

Hidden behind the leaves, Legolas watched as the orcs tore his mother down. He watched their leader stab and torture her. He watched them grab her wrists and drag her away, leaving him alone with dead orcs and the blood of his mother. 

He remained curled up in his hiding place. When the Sun moved overhead, he did not move. When she sank below the horizon and cast the forest in darkness, he did not move. When she rose again the next morning, he was still there.

Nanath told him not to leave. He will honor her last wish.

 * * * 

Thranduil pulled hard at the reins of his steed. The elk halted and puffed a heavy breath through his nose. The Elvenking slid off his mount. Feren and the Elven Guard that accompanied him followed suit.

Thranduil had returned that morning from a campaign near Dol Guldur. It had been a long, hard battle. The force of the enemy was unrelenting and Thranduil was forced to withdraw. His stinging defeat was quickly forgotten upon his return home to the news his wife and son were missing. Still in battle-worn armor, Thranduil immediately directed his weary elk to the fortress gardens.

The king and his troops found the remains of the battle. The slain consisted of the queen's escort and the orcs that attacked them. Thranduil was only slightly comforted by the absence of his wife and son. 

They quickly followed the trail of trampled growth. It led them to another bloody scene. Thranduil knelt down. Red blood soaked the ground, mixing with the black blood of orcs. He touched it, his fingers coming away stained.

His ear perked at a sound to his left. Breath—frantic and trembling. 

  "Legolas?" he whispered.

A blur tumbled out of a bush and fell into his father's arms. The startled troops relaxed when they recognized their prince. Thranduil embraced his son tightly, feeling his cold body shake like a leaf. 

After a moment, Thranduil pried the elfling off him to examine him. It was difficult to search for injury beneath the mud and blood that drenched his son. Though alarmed by how much blood was crimson, Thranduil deduced it did not come from Legolas. Aside from a cut above his eye, he seemed unharmed on his body.

His mind was another matter. 

  "Ion nín," Thranduil soothed, wiping away Legolas' tears. "Where is your naneth?"

Legolas sniffed and swallowed his sobs. Beneath the grime, he was as pale as snow. When he tried to speak, his words were as fragile and shaking as his body.

  "Orcs. Orcs. They took nana."

  "Did they say where? Please, penneth."

The prince was in no condition for a debrief. A part of Thranduil hated to interrogate him like a soldier. But Faenmîr's life depended up the testimony of their son. 

Legolas shook his head.

  "Can you point in the direction they took her?"

Legolas raised a trembling hand. His finger pointed northwest. 

Cold washed over Thranduil. He glanced at the body of an orc. A dirty insignia confirmed his fears. 

  Thranduil gathered Legolas into his arms and stood. He began to pass him off to Feren, saying, "Take the prince home. We'll continue on."

  Legolas clung to his neck. "Ada, no! Don't go!"

  "I must, ion nín." He rubbed the elfling's back. "I must bring your naneth home."

He gently pried the child off and placed him in the arms of his second. Feren bowed his head to his king before galloping away. Legolas' wails carried until he was too far for even elven ears to hear.

  Thranduil returned to the elk. He raised his sword to rally his soldiers. "Woodland Realm! To Mount Gundabad!"

 * * * 

At Gundabad, Thranduil discovers the worst fears of the Wise have been realized. Gundabad, once housed by dwarves, was not only occupied by mere orcs. The Witch-King of the Nazgûl now ruled within an iron fortress called Angmar. 

Thranduil's forces were by no means ready for a fight of this magnitude. For their love and loyalty for the royal family, they prepared their bows and swords. 

The battle never commenced. Before Thranduil could utter a single order, he saw his queen atop the fortress wall. She was bloody, bruised, disfigured. During the days of her captivity, the orcs have made her their plaything.

Faenmîr held her head high. Despite the torture, she was the image of regal, deadly warrior Queen of the Woodland Realm. Her beautiful face was calm, brave, and proud as orcs forced her over the edge.

King Thranduil watched in frozen horror. He heard himself scream—distant and muted—unable to save her. Her body hit the rocks below. Despite the distance, his elven hearing caught the crunch of her bones.

Thranduil pushed his elk faster than ever before. The loyal beast closed the distance in a matter of seconds. He threw himself off his mount without stopping, his armored knees hitting rocks. He didn't register the pain as he gathered his love's broken body into his arms. 

Never did the Elvenking weep like he did then. Never will he weep so again. 

Carrying his dead lover, Thranduil rode alone into the forest, leaving behind stunned and grieving troops. They returned home and awaited their Elvenking.

He emerged from the trees the next day with no body.

It is said he buried Queen Faenmîr in an unmarked grave deep in the forest she loved. He didn't speak of her or her demise except to order a statue of her likeness. It was placed at the edge of the forest, guarding her home. 

Translations:
Sindarin:
Ion nín - My son
Adar/Ada - Father/Dad
Naneth/Nana - Mother/Mom
Penneth - Little one
Arda - World
Rían nín - My queen
Melin gin - I love you
Angmar - Iron Home

Khuzdul:
Gundabad - Underground Hall (allegedly)