I wish I was an artist. A sculptor even. My skills at the loom were never anything extraordinary, my tapestries nothing like the work once found on the walls of Menegroth in Doriath. But how I wish I could depict the proud beauty of my warrior prince in his prime, when he was hailed as the greatest of his generation among the Noldor. 

Gwindor, the pale blue prince. 

With eyes that burned like Varda's brightest stars. And a heart as steadfast and pure. Whom I betrayed when he needed me most. I deserve all the agony my memories offer me.

Year 131 of the Third Age

The messenger from Thranduil was vague as he stood before Galadriel and Celeborn, his eyes evasive and posture curled as though he were guarding an eggshell of a secret.

The Elvenking's wife was due soon with their first child. Galadriel's own daughter Celebrían and husband Elrond had welcomed twin sons the previous year, the most joyous event that Galadriel had experienced in centuries. Elladan and Elrohir were her last thoughts when she laid to rest at night and her first when she rose at dawn. 

She had been interested to see how parenthood would change the grave eyed king of the Woodland Realm. If the presence of his own child would soften him or cause him to retreat even further under the eaves of the Greenwood. Oropher's death had been hard on Thranduil. Oropher had been a very young father. They had been only a shy century apart in age, more like brothers. The violent loss of the first Woodland king had devastated the kingdom and changed Thranduil overnight from a competitive yet lighthearted youth to a distant and icy ruler.

Ever more reclusive with the passing years, it was rare that she heard from them at all. She had known immediately as the green clad messenger was announced that something was amiss.

"They need me to travel there now?"

"They request it," the messenger said, shifting his weight uneasily. Dreading more questions, no doubt. He shrank under her probing stare. "A humble request."

Galadriel raised her eyebrows at her husband. Both of them knew that there was nothing humble about Thranduil. That was one aspect of his nature that grief had never changed. He had been proud since the moment of his birth. One would think he was of the Noldor instead of a Sinda. 

"Very well," she answered softly. "I will go with you at dawn."

The messenger was dismissed. Celeborn gave a thoughtful sigh, folding his hands under his voluminous sleeves. He turned to his silent wife.

"Do you sense anything is wrong? The queen is well?"

Galadriel shook her head, searching the depths of her fëa. "Nothing odd. I can't imagine it's life threatening."

"I agree. There would have been more urgency in his manner if that was so. Whatever this is, Thranduil wants it kept silent."

"And so shall we be on the matter, until time or circumstance prove otherwise," Galadriel concluded, holding out her hand for her husband's. "I will go alone with the guard from the Woodland. Perhaps he will be more open with fewer of us there. You know how Thranduil values his privacy." 

They rode all the next day and into the night. The guard did not offer for them to rest. Galadriel broke apart a piece of lembas on horseback as they ducked under the heavy branches of the Greenwood, the leaves fresh with spring. 

They arrived at the Emyn Duir, the dark mountains, in the wee hours of the morning. She was led over the short bridge into the front entrance of the looming palace. It's rocky halls were reminiscent of her cousin Maedhros' fortress of Himring. Though impressive, it could never match the beauty of that fallen castle of lost Beleriand.

Weary from the road and ready to change her attire from her riding hose and tunic into something more appropriate for her status, she paused at the corridor leading to the guest quarters. The guards stopped, beckoning her forward.

"He wishes to see me now?" She gaped.

"He said as soon as you arrived."

Galadriel couldn't even muster a scoff at the insolence. She was much too curious, though a shadow grew in her mind. Quietly, she followed them to the cavernous throne room.

Giant roots of ancient trees threaded along curling pillars of rock, moss touching the edges of the grand staircase like frost. Galadriel had not been to Woodland Halls since the loss of Oropher, though those visits had been rare. A Sinda of Doriath to the core, Oropher had resented any intrusion by the invading Noldor, despite the centuries that had passed since her people had come to Arda.

Masked guards with breast plates like layers of unfurling leaves stood at attention beside their king. Thranduil reclined in a most unusual fashion. In a word, the bright haired ellon was disheveled. He wore a long tunic of plain fabric, loose at the neck. His head was bare of a crown. 

Oropher and his son had always made a point of appearing lordly. As the last of the pure-blood noble Sindar, Galadriel wondered if they felt that they were the heirs of Thingol and not Elrond, the end of the legendary ruler's true line.

Shifting forward in his chair, it took a moment for him to realize they stood before him. Thranduil leaned elbows on his knees. He ran a hand over his wrought expression.

The messenger cleared his throat. "Sire?"

Thranduil blinked up at them from under heavy eyebrows, his gaze as blue as cornflowers. Another gift from his father. He stood abruptly, shoulders like iron, head held high as he observed her presence. Only his mouth gave him away. It was not firmly set, but parted in a silent question. Or perhaps a silent cry for help.

Galadriel's heart moved to sympathy. Thranduil was without father or mother to guide him. That was terrible place for an elf to be. It was not as the Creator had intended at the beginning of all things.

She gave him a calm smile. "Well met, Elvenking."

"Lady Galadriel."

"I came as soon as I received word." She took a hesitant step forward. Too much interest could send the skittish ellon running. And isolation appeared to be the last thing he needed. "I hope I have not arrived too late."

His lips curled faintly in a sardonic yet tragic smile, his eyes still frozen in anguish.

"I ask that you come with me to my wife's chambers. The babe is there."

"Maenith has given birth?"

"Yes. Two days ago." He gave a soft breath of astonishment, as though he couldn't believe it had been so short a time. "Please."

Queen Maenith's chambers were high in a tower above the treeline, peering out over the mountain ridge. The room was spacious, a breeze fragrant with pine stirred silvery curtains at an open balcony. In a large bed by a roaring fireplace was an inert figure lying under silken covers. The queen stared at the sandalwood crib across from her. It was eerily quiet for the bedroom of a newborn and it's doting parents. 

Thranduil went to his wife's side, kneeling by the bed and tenderly laying a hand on her light brown head. Still, she remained motionless. Galadriel felt a lurch of dread in her spirit. Something was drastically wrong. She waited for Thranduil to motion her over.

"Melui, the Lady is here. As you requested." He pressed a kiss to her temple.

The queen stirred and slowly sat up. She had always been a beauty with delicate lips and a gently sloping nose. But her gaze was wide with pleading terror, her mouth a light line. 

Galadriel stepped forward. "Queen Maenith, I'm here. What can I help you both with?"

"My baby," she spoke, her hoarse voice raw with tears. "It's my baby."

"Is the child ill?"

Thranduil approached the crib. Tenderly, he lifted the child in his arms. He brought the babe to her. She peered down through the folds of soft cloth into the perfect face of a newborn elfling. Pink lips, tightly curled fists, downy lashes. Healthy by first appearance.

"Is it male or female?"

"A male child," Thranduil replied, with a hint of his natural pride returning to his commanding voice.

"He is perfect," Galadriel said with a soft smile as the baby yawned, reminding her of her own beautiful grandsons. 

Silence filled the room. Galadriel shot a glance at each parent. She was beginning to lose her patience.

"There is something neither of you are saying."   

Maenith knitted and untangled her fingers repeatedly over her drawn up knees. "It was after his birth that I received the vision."

"A birth vision?"

"You have heard of these before?"

"Of course," Galadriel said with a firm nod. "Not every mother of the Eldar receives one, but they are nothing to fear. Most of them."

"This was no vision of the future though," Maenith said, her tone shaking. She held out her hands eagerly for her baby, the blood draining from her already pale face. Thranduil brought their son to her. "It was of his past."

Galadriel narrowed her eyes. "His past?"

Thranduil laid the boy into his mother's arms. The babe was so quiet. Thranduil straightened his posture and looked towards the doors where two guards had followed him. He motioned for them to leave. Once alone, he turned his fierce glare on her.

"I must ask that whatever is spoken here remains between the three of us."

Though she wasn't used to taking orders, the situation felt so dire, Galadriel couldn't help acquiescing. "Of course."

"I saw the dark gates of a fortress. A warrior led a small band to the doors, his gaze wrathful. His forces were heartened by his charge and attacked their fell enemy with vengeance in their hearts." Maenith's eyes went blank as though she had slipped into a trance, recalling the vision she had been gifted. "And then there was blackness. And pain. Years of merciless torture and chained toil. Yet still a spark of fire burned in him till he broke free from his chains and saved himself. His one thought was of an elleth, his betrothed to whom he longed to return."

The tale was sounding eerily familiar.

"But he had been broken. Maimed and aged like a mortal, the light of the Valar dim in his shell of a rhaw. His betrothed would not have him when he returned home. Still, he did not blame her for this rejection, but accepted it because of his impairments. He did not want to burden her with his broken body, broken spirit. He loved her, even till the end as he lay dying after their kingdom was destroyed. His last thoughts were only of her safety and that of his friend, the bloodstained mortal who had stolen her love."

Galadriel stumbled to a nearby chair and sank into it, her heart flaring against her breastbone. Of course she knew the tale. It was of a great warrior of the First Age, one of her kin. 

"Gwindor of Nargothrond," she breathed, running her fingertips of her lips. "Do you believe that this babe... could he be the reincarnation of that warrior?"

Thranduil snarled, pacing before the fire. "I do not deny what my wife has seen, but I know the laws that the Creator designed for our kind. If we are slain, our spirits may return many years in the future after resting in the Halls of Mandos. But I have never heard of that happening where a reborn elf has returned to Arda. They are reborn in Aman, where our people are destined to dwell. Not on the shores of Middle Earth."

"It isn't common. Though it has happened a time or two. Under special circumstances," Galadriel reasoned aloud. "But Gwindor. I never thought he would choose to come back. Not after..."

After surviving the worst battle in history and being forced to watch his beloved brother killed in front of him. After surviving over a decade of torture in the dungeons of Angband. Not after he lost his betrothed to a man he admired and loved. Not after he was finally slain in battle, broken and rejected by his own people for the wounds he had suffered.

Such spirits were better off remaining in the Halls of Mandos, receiving blessed rest from the great Lady Estë of the Valar in her gardens of sleep. Mandos would never allow such a fëa to return to Middle Earth, especially outside of Valinor.

Galadriel gingerly approached the bed. Queen Maenith peered up from the bundle in her arms, her eyes filled with tears.

"Please," she whispered. "Tell me that I am wrong. That my baby won't be forced to live with such memories of loneliness, heartbreak, and pain. I couldn't bear it."

"May I see him a moment?"

Maenith did not protest, but Galadriel sensed Thranduil stiffen behind her. The child still slept, even after being passed from one set of arms to another. Galadriel closed her eyes and slipped deep into the folds of her fëa, searching for the newborn babe in the darkness.

She found him in the void. Though he was small and quiet in flesh, his spirit burned like dragon fire. As tenderly as she would with one of her own grandsons, she touched his spirit. He turned to her. 

He was ancient. Ancient and strong. A survivor. Eyes like icy fire, blue as the fiercest northern sky. 

The baby let out a soft cry in her arms. Thranduil stepped forward, but Maenith uttered a warning for him to stay away. Galadriel slipped into the darkness once more. 

Who were you, ancient one? Galadriel spoke reverently in her heart.

Prince. 

Of what kingdom?

Of Finrod Felagund's kingdom under the river.

Galadriel jolted as though she'd been stabbed at hearing the name of her older brother. She fought off a rush of tears and focused on the babe.

Why are you here? Why have you returned?

Betrothed. Oath broken. Must find...

The voice faded to the thin wail of a newborn. Thranduil rushed forward as Galadriel's eyes flew open. He took his son from her as she stumbled backwards, catching herself on the edge of the chair.

"Well?" The king demanded angrily, rocking his distraught child in his arms.

"Calm yourself, Thranduil, or hand me the child," Maenith reprimanded in a fragile voice. 

He gave her the baby and gripped Galadriel's arms, righting her before she fell over. He stared hard into her face, his expression twisting with dread. 

"Tell me, Galadriel. What did you see?"

Galadriel wet her lips and looked past him towards the bed.

"It is as you feared."

A shattered cry fell from Maenith's mouth, her reserve failing her. Thranduil sank onto the bed, his face collapsing.

"When my father died, I never thought I would feel such pain again. But to know that the child we have brought into the world has already been maimed in his spirit..." Thranduil spoke as though they were not in the room. "How could the Valar allow such a thing?"

Gathering herself, Galadriel stepped forward. 

"Know this, Elvenking. His spirit is not maimed. It is strong, terrifyingly so for a baby. He is ancient and wise. Your son is a survivor. And he is your son. You brought him into this world this time and you are his parents. Never doubt this."

Maenith held the baby close as his crying softened. "But how can he grow up knowing what he does of the darkness in this world?"

"I want him washed clean of it. The Valar have failed us in this and I want it corrected. I want him safe, Galadriel," Thranduil demanded, rising to his full height. "I will do whatever it takes."

Despite his icy exterior, Thranduil loved fiercely, almost to his own destruction. It was both his gift and curse. Perhaps that was why the Valar had given him this son. From what she had gathered in their sparse exchange in the spirit realm, Gwindor had returned to simply find the one he had once loved and lost. 

But Finduilas, her own brother's grandchild, had long since died. Surely Gwindor had known this before he had requested to be reborn.

This was a mystery that she did not have the knowledge to figure. How she longed to speak with Queen Melian the Maia at that moment, but knew such a desire was impossible.

Perhaps that was where the answer lay, in the arts she had learned from the ancient queen of lost Doriath.

"May I see him once again?" She was given the child by Thranduil who watched her like a hawk. "I may be able to do something for him, until he is old enough to understand what has happened to him, so that he may enjoy a sweet and peaceful childhood. That your family may be free of this pain."

Maenith sat forward, laying a hand on her husband's shoulder. "Will it hurt him?"

"No. But he will not recall any of this, anything from before. It was be as though he has never seen this earth."

"Yes," Thranduil answered without hesitation. "Do it."

Galadriel paused. "But it would be best if he learned the truth in years to come. To keep to the path he has been set upon. The Valar have their reasons. As does the almighty Creator."

"Do it, Galadriel."

The Lady of Lórien obeyed. 

***

Melui: Sindarin, lovely or sweet 

Rhaw: Sindarin, the body element of the fëa/rhaw equation

Author's Note: The more I read about Gwindor in canon, the more I'm like damn son. This guy needs WAY more credit than he's usually given in canon. He's usually just seen as an oddity because he's the elf that aged like a human because of his captivity in Angband. But he is really similar to Maedhros, except like good guy Maedhros who doesn't kill people because of his daddy issues. And honestly, I feel like he's a good fit for a Legolas reincarnation because they seem similar. And Legolas is so mysterious in canon anyway, I would think he was reincarnated anyway.

Illustration by Alan Lee