A/N:  The setting of this story is AU as I will introduce several OCs and cultures not found in The Lord of the Rings. This story will *attempt* to engage canon as much as possible where appropriate, and I will definitely appreciate feedback on accuracy or where canon can be implemented.  I am by no means a Tolkien scholar, but I try my best to research my stories.  My hope is that the work will be entertaining enough!  Enjoy!

*Thoughts in*

Setting pre FOTR

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Chapter 1:  WHAT’S IN A NAME

There before him were the enchanted gates that led into his father’s keep.  He couldn’t help but smile as he thought of the reception he would soon be getting. Legolas had just returned from a patrol in Mirkwood.  Indeed the Shadow and all its fell creatures were growing at an alarming rate.  He had been out for two months hunting spider and orc, scouting the darkened lands near Dol Guldur.  The weight of the three Black ones bore heavily upon him.  He was looking forward to coming home.  Once inside the gates Legolas was surprised that no one had come to greet him. That is that no little one had rushed to him. 

*Where is Lotórie,* Legolas mused to himself.  He had expected his little niece to come running to meet him.  She had an uncanny sense, even for an elf, of knowing when Legolas would come home from his ventures abroad.  He almost expected that as soon as he stepped foot inside the gates, a little bundle of energy would pounce upon him, hoping to be twirled around by a most happy Legolas.

Lotórie was the daughter of Legolas’ brother Laurenor, and was very much the little light of his life, of his family.  Legolas found himself waiting for the little elf to pounce on him.  *Where are you my little flower,* Legolas sighed involuntarily, and chuckled at himself, *that was unexpected.*  He walked towards the exterior chambers hoping that inside he would find what he was looking for, and as he walked he couldn’t help but think of the legacy his mother had left his father and his siblings. 

*So much in a name,* thought Legolas. His mother had put so much thought into each of their names. Laurenor, Lotórie’s father, was named in remembrance of Lothlórien, the land of gold.   Their mother always remembered her home, where she was raised, as a land of gold, blessed with the majesty of the mallorn trees. Legolas couldn’t help but think of his mother, so close to his heart, but yet so far from him.

*Nyére*, Legolas silently called out to his mother, *you were so aptly named sorrow.*  Legolas could never fully heal the wound that his mother’s death left.  Nae, not even her parents could get passed their pain.  Their grief had run so deep that they sailed to the undying lands, seeking solace from the torment their daughter’s death left them.

*I had so little time with Naneth,*   These thoughts often plagued Legolas, and he was thankful for the time he had with her.  Remembering those times, brought a smile to Legolas’ face, and he remembered her words to him when he would bug her about his name, *Oh Legolas, your name is perfectly acceptable and beautiful!  Remember you are my little green leaf, named for the gloriousness of this Greenwood that shall endure! What little one, you still hate it… Oh I see your brother has a better name… Oh gold you say, you wanted gold in your name too?  Oh my little one, the green of the trees is so much more than gold, yes Legolas, Green is so much more than gold.*  

Indeed Thranduil and Nyére named their last child almost as a challenge to the shadow that enveloped their lands that gave rise to the name Mirkwood.  Although Legolas had been born before the time of the watchful peace, and lived through those peaceful times, he carried a pale sadness with him.  Yet Legolas was the light of Mirkwood.  In fact, and unbeknownst to him, Legolas’ youthful light was a beacon of hope for the Eldar who tarried on Middle Earth.

As Legolas walked across the large cavernous foyer, Thranduil watched from his balcony.  He could see the trace of sadness that graced his youngest son’s face.  *Ahh Nyére, I wish you were here to see how our son has grown.  Our little green lassë has sprouted from the little nymph he once was.*   Thranduil couldn’t help but laugh at the memories of his youngest son. Legolas had been getting in and out of trouble as a child, and during those times Thranduil had a hard time remembering the knowledge his wife had shared with him concerning Legolas.

***

On the day of Legolas’ conception Nyére had whispered to Thranduil, “Our son will be strong, but I sense his path on these lands will be hard.  Yet I feel hope. Somehow this life that I hold is tied to the making right of this world. Our little one carries the future of the Eldar.” Nyére was gifted with an incredible gift of foresight which was a mystery to Thranduil and to many others as well, as her parents lineage was left unspoken by her and her parents.  They were not Silvan as many of Lothlórien or Mirkwood, although his father in-law had dark hair, but not as dark as that of the wood elves.  Thranduil mused further, and yet he knew they were not Sindar like the Lord Celeborn or himself.  Could they be Noldor such as the Lady Galadriel?  It was a mystery to Thranduil which Nyére only laughed at when inquired to by Thranduil.

What Thranduil knew with certainty was that his marriage to Nyére had resealed the alliance between Lórien and Greenwood which had been weakened by the past’s troubles during the time of his father Oropher.

Thranduil watched his wife in amazement.  “Nyére, of course the gift of a child is wondrous, but do you feel such a presence from this little one?  I would dare admonish you for speaking as any expecting mother would, but I trust your words.”

Nyére tossed her head back and laughed, “Ai, yes our son is the most special being created this day on Arda.” Suddenly her countenance was serious, “and to the music of the Ainar is added the unique voice of our little Greenleaf.  Legolas, you are thus so named, strong and vibrant as the trees of Greenwood, and eternally bright as the light that shone from the trees of silver and gold.” Nyére felt her husbands hand softly touch her abdomen.

Thranduil spoke to his son “Yes, Legolas, you shall be as a light ever more and your voice will be both luminous and lovely.  Meleth nîn, you have blessed me with the holiest privilege of our kind, to be father to two, now three wonderful children.  The Valar have truly blessed us, nae even the lady of the Galadriel has spoken so herself.”  Casually spoken was not this last phrase, for Thranduil was ever trying to unravel the little mystery of his wife’s heritage.  Indeed Galadriel herself had a bond with his Nyére that Thranduil did not fully comprehend, and each child born to them was received by Galadriel with her presence at the time of their births.  This last bit was not lost on many who dwelt in the elven realms of middle earth.  Galadriel being present at a birth of a child of an elf was only reserved for her kin, and that was the one thing that Nyére had assured Thranduil, she was not kin to Galadriel. And so the rumors surrounding his Nyére flourished.  He himself had many working hypothesis. 

***

Thranduil was brought back into the present by the shouts he heard from below, “Hir nîn! Are you so lost in thought you cannot welcome home your own son?”

“No, of course not Legolas, it is good to have you home!  I have a feeling what you have been looking for will soon make its presence known.”  Thranduil laughed as he heard giggles come from behind his desk.  He turned his head towards where the giggles emanated, and with the sound of mirth in his voice, said, “Go Lotórie, your uncle is looking for you.  I think he is rather upset you didn’t go meet him at the gate.”

“Ada!!!”  Lotórie, squealed, “I wanted to give uncle Legolas a bigger surprise! I want him to think I forgot about meeting him at the gate.  He will be so mad.”  Lotórie was very sure that her plan would make her uncle happy, and she had after all a bigger surprise- the arrow she fletched herself.  It had been a task, hand winding the thread to bind the feathers onto the shaft of her arrow.  The arrow itself was not well made, but Lotórie insisted that she had to learn how to do it so she could impress her uncle Legolas.  After all everyone knew that of all the warriors, not only was he the best archer, but when it came to mending and making their own arrows, Uncle was the very best.  Mirkwood had elves who dedicated themselves to making bows and arrows and their craftsmanship could not be surpassed by the warriors, but all warriors did indeed need to learn the art for themselves.  When out on patrols or in battle, warriors had to mend and make their own arrows, being so far from the master craftsmen.

Thranduil looked at the crooked arrow held tightly in Lotórie’s little hands, and spoke lovingly, “Well I think you will surely surprise your uncle, but you must run to him quick! I thought I saw him a little sad when you didn’t meet him at the gate.” 

The look of concern that flashed on Lotórie’s face was endearing. Thranduil patted her bobbing head as she rushed out of his chambers to greet her uncle, arrow in tow.  Thranduil thought to himself, *So much in a name in my family, and the tradition has been carried on with my children, and with little Lotórie.  Ahhh Lotórie, my blossoming flower, so aptly named for every moment you live, revealing new beauty, like a Niphredil blooming on the mallorns of Lórinand*

ELVISH

Naneth- mother

lassë- leaf (quenyan)

Ãrda- Middle Earth

Meleth nîn- My love

Hir nîn- My Lord

Lórinand-LothLórien