Chapter Text
Preface
My father raised me to listen more than speak, look no further than the gates of Amon Lanc, and to think of a dwarf like an orc with slightly more brains. It is within my humility to admit I failed him in the majority of these things. The degradation of Amon Lanc to Dul Gudur I could hardly help, I was little more than a child at the time. But I fear I have always spoken more than common elf royalty. As heir to the Woodland Realm; merriment was supposed to somehow be beyond me. As for dwarves...you know that story.
Despite many overworked and delirious theories-(like the speculation I simply popped into a silver cradle near Emyn-nu-Fuin with a bow in my arms)-I did have a mother. She died young-for an elf-and I do not think my father ever recovered. Though a good man in his own respects, Thranduil of the Woodland realm was oft blinded by memory of the world as it had been, and possessed little vision for change. Though stirred from the confines of his kingdom by the actions of Thorin and company, I do believe he would have allowed our people to sink into the stuff of Legend if it had not been for the cruelties of Annatar.
But I stray off the true aim of my story.
I spent my childhood under and in the shimmering boughs of Amon Lanc, I watched as the fantastical glory of my home was reduced to naught more than the lair of a Witch, and I have found that from the best can come worst...and from the least can come most.
When I was asked to play the part of Emissary to Rivendell in 2951, I had no idea my world was about to be pulled up by the roots. As they say; "step over a stream to find a waterfall." My name is Legolas, King of the Woodland Realm and Prince consort of Minas Tirith. This is my story.
Lasta a gar-gul.