A/N: This chapter is all about Thranduil, and takes both from the movies and books. This was written POST-BOTFA, and most definitely as a reaction. Enjoy!

In the end, it was a Dwarvish messenger who found him. He was in the ruins of Dale, slowly weaving his way through the bodies lining the streets, icy blue eyes scanning the ground and faces around him. He saw many faces on that mournful trek, elves whom he had known his whole life, men so young they could really only have been boys, even the occasional dwarf, although they had mostly fought around the gates of Erebor. He saw many faces, but there was one face in particular that Thranduil Oropherion was searching for.

Every time the King caught a glimpse of a blonde head in the mud, his heart would seize and he would dash forward, a quiet plea on his lips.

Not him. I have already lost Her, you cannot take him from me.

Obviously someone heard his plea, because it was never Legolas that he found lying dead. Each time he failed to find his son he was filled with grief at the loss of one of his people, and relief that it was not the Prince. But as time went on, he became more worried.

When he had parted from Legolas during the battle, the Prince had been with Tauriel. Together they had been leading the archers along the high walls, but the battle had been over for hours, and still he could find no sign of his son. The King's heart beat out a steady prayer as he walked on.

Not him. Not him. Not him.

Thranduil could see the gates of Dale, and through them Erebor, from where he was standing when the messenger found him. The dwarf had a grim face, and even grimmer eyes. A dwarf of the Iron Hills, Thranduil knew, not one of Okenshield's company.

"Your Majesty," he called out as he drew nearer.

"I have no care for the grievances your King Under the Mountain holds against me. Nor do I have the time to listen to his petty complaints." Thranduil snapped, never looking up from his search.

"Thorin Okenshield is dead." The dwarf's voice hitched, as if he were holding back tears, "and so are the Heirs."

Thranduil brought his eyes to the dwarf's, and saw that there was no lie in them. Only grief, a grief he could feel reflected in his own heart as it beat out its steady prayer.

Not him. Not him. Not him.

He swallowed the pain that threatened to overwhelm him.

"I am sorry for your loss." He whispered gently, "and for my hash words." Thranduil surprised himself with the sincerity of his words. He was sorry.

"I know." The dwarf coughed, shaking away his pain, and putting on a mask of strength that Thranduil could only admire. "We wish to remove the bodies from the field of battle, but your soldiers will not let us near."

Thranduil's heart dropped like a stone in his chest, and the blood in his veins ran cold. There was only one reason the Forest Guard would not allow the Dwarves near.

"Protect him. If he falls, protect him."

Perhaps it had been a selfish order to give, but Thranduil could not allow his son to be hurt. Even in death. He had promised his wife as she died that Legolas would never be hurt, and it was the only thing that held Thranduil to this life.

The scream. Thranduil had heard it of course, and he knew what it meant, probably better than most. Could it have been Legolas? Could it have been for Legolas?

Panic sent the King of Mirkwood flying out of the gates of Dale.

He could barely hear the faint chorus of "Your Majesty!" over the fearful chant in his mind.

Not him. Not him. Not him!

He flew. His personal guard hadn't even passed the gates by the time he had cleared the bridge into then town.

Not him. Not him. Never him.

The road leading to the gates of Erebor, once grand, was now covered in bodies, and muddy with blood. He flew past it all, not giving a second thought to those he pushed past or leapt over.

He could see them now, just before the gates, still on the battle field, but just barely, a circle of shining armor. Elves. The Forest Guard.

Not him.

As he drew near, the guards parted for him. There was no need for him to give the order. They knew why he had come. He came to a halt just within the ring, his heart hammering in his chest. His eyes darted from one end of the ring to the other, taking in all he saw.

Thorin Okenshield lay at the far end of the circle, his Elvish blade beside him. A healer knelt over him, prodding at wounds, and wrapping them. The elf did not look up when the King stepped in, but simply said,

"He is not yet dead, but he will be before very long. Let me do what I can for him, my King, please."

"Take him to the city. There should be a place for you there. And bring his company with you, I will not have them kept waiting."

"Thank you, my King."

Thranduil made no answer but looked further into the ring. The blonde-haired dwarf, was lain out as well, but no healer was with him, there was no need for it. His brother was lain beside him, but awkwardly, and it was there that Thranduil's eyes finally rested upon his son. Legolas stood by the bodies of the dark-haired dwarf, and Tauriel. The elf captain lay over the dwarf, in as protective embrace, and Thranduil finally understood the meaning of the cry. She had died with the one she loved, and left his son in her wake.

The King remembered another time he had found his son like this, standing as still as a statue, with his face turned upwards to the sky.

"Nino nin." My son.

The Legolas of his memory, and the Legolas before him both drop their heads and look up at him with tear filled eyes.

"Ada." The memory whispered as Thranduil dropped to his knees before him.

"My King." Legolas answered.

Thranduil stepped forward, towards his son, and did what he had not done since that day all those years ago. He gathered his son close to him, and rested his cheek on the younger elf's head.

"It will be okay, nino nin," he and his memory-self comforted, "she has not left you forever."

Legolas crumpled into Thranduil's arms, silently sobbing into his father's armor. The King silently nodded to the guards to disperse, and allow the Dwarves access to their own.

As the Dwarves came forward, all averting their eyes away from the sobbing Prince and the King, Thranduil scooped his son up into both arms and carried him back to Dale.

The Prince did not protest his father's actions. Both knew that Legolas would not have been able to move off the field on his own two feet, and both cherished the comfort they took from each other.

Years later, after Legolas had gone north to Rivendell, Thranduil would visit the graves of Thorin, Fíli, and Kíli. He visited Tauriel's grave as well, as she had been buried with the Kíli at Bilbo's insistence. While there, he would hear the snickers and jests about the King's crying son. The cold fury that took hold of the King was one that stopped even the most hushed jests about Legolas in the Mountain's halls, and won Thranduil the begrudging respect of many of the Dwarves therein, including the remaining members of Thorin's company.