Here we are! LAST CHAPTEEEER! :D It had been such a pleasure to write this for all of you, and your continued support and encouragement has really touched a place in my heart.

To all those who reviewed, THANK YOU! You have really made this all worth it, and I am so happy to have heard your comments and your ideas on this story. It means the world to me, and you all have made this possible.

To all who favorited and followed, you guys are AWESOME! Thank you for encuraging and supporting me in this way, and I really hope that I lived up to your expectations.

To all future readers, followers, favoriters, and reviewers, may I just say a huge Thank you for choosing to read through A Helping Hand, and that I really hope that you enjoyed yourselves. You make this experience absolutely incredible.

Now let's get onto the story! :D

Takes place when Legolas is around 13/14 human years.

...

The steel of the knife was cold against his neck.

Legolas gritted his teeth as his leg gave out from underneath him- again- and repressed a pained yelp. He wouldn't give his captors the satisfaction. He wouldn't.

The man dragging him along grunted and pressed the knife closer to his throat, causing a trickle of blood to escape from pale skin.

Legolas tensed, every muscle freezing even as his leg cried out in red hot agony. A flicker fear ran trailed down his spine, and he tilted his head back as far as it would go.

The knife followed.

The man leaned in close, his revolting breath warm on the blonde's pointed ear.

"No funny business, elf."

Silently, he gave the slightest of nods, hardly daring to breathe.

And then they were off again, every step bringing a flaring agony up and down his leg. The knife never wavered, but Legolas doubted he could have made an escape either way. The only reason he was still standing was the arm around his waist, gripping tightly and keeping him upright. He could hardly walk, much less run. Without the support, he would have long since collapsed.

As it was, he may just collapse with the support. The pain was blinding him, and every trip and stumble caused darkness to encroach on his vision and his ankle scream in protest. He was exhausted, and every muscle throbbed.

They were still under the boughs of Mirkwood, and that was why the men who surrounded him were being so cautious. They kept glancing around at their surroundings, as if expecting elves to jump out from behind the trees, which was ridiculous; they were wood elves, if anything they would be jumping down from the trees.

It did not matter though, for their would be no elves- jumping down or otherwise- at all. Not unless Legolas was very lucky, and judging on how his life had been going so far, he was not lucky at all. For it was Midsummer's Eve, and every elf would be within the palace gardens, feasting and laughing in celebration. *

All elves, of course, except one.

And that was what had led Legolas to his situation in the first place. For his father had locked himself away once more, hidden within his chambers and letting none enter, not even his only son. **

And it had hurt. It hurt to be shut out and ignored, especially on that night. A night that was meant for friends and family. A night for remembrance and merriment. A night to be together and to enjoy one another's company.

Legolas had not spent time with his father that night. He had not spent time with his father in a long time.

And so he had left, to go and see his only remaining family member who he could talk to, even though he never received any response.

At least he felt as if she listened, for that was more than could be said for his father. (And how sad was that, that someone who was long gone listened closer than his living father did?)

It was a small clearing, one that held a slightly overrun garden and an old gnarled tree, one that had lived to see many a century. It was quite a distance from the main palace, but he could never bring himself to care.

It was her final resting place, the place where they said she had spent all her time and all her efforts into maintaining the flower beds. The place where she went to be in peace.

There was no body, of course. But this was where they had held her ceremony. Where they had hoped to leave her in peace, one last time.

And since the somber gathering, no one had entered and no one had left the quiet glade. It was left alone, for none dared to ignore the King's wishes on leaving the clearing well alone.

No one except Legolas, that is.

Because he had figured that it would not be fair for him to lose both parents. It wouldn't be fair to leave him utterly alone in the world. Losing one parent was terrible, but losing both was devastating.

For his father was stone, alive but not truly there. He merely existed and went through the motions, and on every occasion he could, he would lock himself away, hiding from the world and lost amidst his grief and misery. No matter how hard Legolas begged and pleaded, no matter how hard he tried - and he had tried so, so hard- nothing could convince the King to attempt living once more.

He merely survived, and left his young, grieving, confused son to grow up alone and completely miserable.

And so Legolas had reached out.

It was not his father who reached back.

He had climbed the aged sentinel, humming a lullaby with long since forgotten words under his breath. The tree greeted him, resonating warmth and comfort. The young blonde had sunken into it's embrace, grateful for it's steady presence.

And he had talked, in quiet, wistful tones, he had talked.

"Hello Naneth…"

He had spoken of his day, of his father and his schooling. He spoke of his archery and how he was the top of his class. He spoke of all the things he could think of, and then some more, for he had no one else to speak to them about.

And he knew, he knew that there was no actual lingering spirit there. That his mother's soul had long since passed on. But it helped, it was comfort. And he needed all the comfort he could receive, for none would be given from his father, and none would be given from anyone else.

(No one dared approach the prince, in fear they would be punished, they simply watched with pitying looks from afar...)

It was a long practiced ritual, one that Legolas had done many a times. Afterwards, when he had spoken all that could be said, he would do his best to clean up the garden, and then he would head home, back to cold lifeless hallways and a cold, lifeless father.

(Or- when life at the palace became a little bit too much- he would spend the night in the the tree, wrapped in it's protective embrace, but that was neither here nor there.)

It had been all going as usual- indeed, he had been about to return and enjoy the rest of the festivities- when he had heard the crying.

It was a child's cry, one that spoke of fear and terror, and Legolas could not help but react. He was armed with only his bow and quiver- for even he was not a fool enough to walk in the forest alone and unarmed- but that should have been fine. Warrior Patrols always took extra care to destroy each and every Spider's Nest during festival nights, and without the spiders, he had assumed that there was really no other danger.

That was his first mistake.

When he had finally found the source of the cry, his eyes were drawn to the small boy who was tied tightly to a trunk of a tree. The child- he could not have been more than five- was screaming his head off, and large, messy tears streamed down his face.

For a moment, Legolas had wondered how a human boy had found himself in Greenwood, and why he was tied up.

Then the child and released another keening wail, and he had decided to think upon it later. He would free the boy first and calm him, for his noise level was loud enough to draw the attention of any near by predator.

That was his second mistake.

He had dropped down from his tree, intent on his task, and took a step towards the young human, who was crying all the louder at his appearance.

That was his third, and final, mistake.

For his focus was so tuned to the small crying boy in front of him, that he forgot to pay attention to the world around him. He did not listen to the trees' warnings, nor did he listen to the many sets of breathing that filled the oddly silent glade, signalling that he was not alone. And so, he stepped directly into a trap.

A large, metal trap that slammed shut upon his leg with a sickening crunching noise. A large, metal trap that caused him to collapse to the ground with a scream tearing from his throat, hot fiery lashes of pain running through his body in a constant stream of agony.

Through some small miracle, he had managed not to sink into unconsciousness, and through bleary eyes he saw the boy get cut loose by a large man with ratty brown hair. There were men everywhere then, poking sticks to the ground and disarming various traps. The constant snapping noises was one of the few things Legolas could register through his pounding head.

Still, he wasn't defenseless, and so he made to grab his bow.

The man placing a knife at the boy's throat in obvious warning had stopped him from getting any farther than that. The man shouted at him, and Legolas tried to understand the rough words through the fog, but it was lost to him. Lost in a hurricane of pain and torment.

When a different man, one with a scruffy red beard, mimed taking off his weapons, Legolas had tensed and shaken his head. He was not such a fool as that.

Wrong answer.

The child had whimpered, the sound unseemingly loud in the silence that had formed. It was a standoff, a single wounded elf amongst a crowd of men, and a small innocent life was the bargaining chip.

Legolas was never one to waste innocent life.

And so he had dropped his weapons, his muscles moving as if they were made of lead, and watched as the men swarmed him. Everything was distant, and a shadowing darkness was taking over his vision.

Then there was hand gripping him, maneuvering him, grasping his leg and pulling. And there was pain, so much pain, and he couldn't think straight. The world was wavering and spinning slightly, and chaos was descending in confusing whirls of sound and movement.

But there was a moment, a single brief moment of clarity, where Legolas could focus on the world around him, and he saw a small sickly man- one that looked far too much like the child to be anything else but his father- pick up the boy and hold him close, his relief palpable in his posture. Their eyes met, and the man seemed guilty and tired and so very done with it all. And Legolas dared to hope.***

And then the man turned away, the young child in his arms, and the hope vanished into the wind.

A hand had grabbed his leg then, squeezing painfully tight on the crushed bone, making explosions of color burst beneath his eyelids, which then became a strong, brilliant white. Legolas' breath hitched and then was released in a long, piercing scream that echoed in the night air.

And then there was nothing.

Nothing at all.

…

When Legolas had awoken, his leg was crudely bound and he was being dragged, a knife pressed against his throat. A dirty gag was in his mouth, and his wrists were tied together behind his back with a scratchy rope. He had feebly struggled, for the grip was tight and uncomfortable, and the smell was repulsive.

The moment he moved, however, pain flared up and down his body, and he had quickly stilled, eyes closed and his breath escaping through his nose with rapid, heavy movements.

The ratty brown haired man had spoken to him then, explaining the "rules." He was to stay silent, keep walking, and follow all directions given to him. If he were to defy any of these rules, he would be punished.

Tired, in pain, and having no clue what else he could have done, he had nodded- the barest tilt of his head- to show his consent.

And so they had went, making their way cautiously through the darkened trees. Legolas' leg was throbbing and pain-filled tremors raced up and down his battered body, making it near impossible for him to keep up with the brutal pace that had been set.

Never had he felt so miserable and aching. Everything hurt, and his world was layers upon layers of torment and agony. Never had he felt such suffering, never had he felt so alone.

Never had he wished for his Ada more.

They walked on through the entire day, and by the end of it Legolas could hardly move. He was limp with exhaustion and pain, and his leg felt as if it was on fire. He did not struggle when they tied him to a tree, he simply went lax against its trunk, his eyes closed, as if by shutting them he could shut out the world.

Rest would not come to him, however, for his captors were intent on celebrating their capture. They kept approaching him, jeering and mocking with malicious glee. And Legolas tried to ignore it, he truly did, but it was hard to ignore hands pulling your hair and voices speaking loudly into you ear. It was hard to ignore when you were beaten to the brink of unconsciousness over and over and over.

He did not speak though. He did not beg, he wouldn't give them the satisfaction. The only noises he released were soft keening cries of pain and small whimpers when his injured leg was jostled, for those noises he could not keep silent.

And when at last all the men had gone to bed, when at last even the guard had fallen into slumber, when at last he was well and truly alone, then Legolas had cired.

They were small silent tears, not loud or jarring like the wails of the human boy, but they trickled down pale cheeks just the same.

( He wanted his Ada. He wanted his Naneth. He wanted to go home…)

Legolas was scared. He was terrified, in truth, but he knew not what he could do to ebb his growing panic, and so he simply pressed himself at tightly as possible to the tree behind his back, absorbing all the comfort he could.

(He just wanted to go home…)

And when at last he fell asleep, it was a dreamless, exhausted slumber.

His eyes were closed.

…

The day after was filled with even more walking, and Legolas felt even more horrible that the one before. He was constantly sweating, and his leg was screaming at him in an endless stream of agony.

He had fallen unconscious more than once, only to awaken a couple hours later in a flurry of confusion. The lack of water and food was making his head pound and his thoughts to flutter around in dizzying patterns, and he was tired. So, so tired.

They reached the edge of the woods by mid-day.

The sun was shining down upon the, and were he in any other situation Legolas might have enjoyed the view. As it was, his bleary eyes just slipped shut, both in despair and because the light hurt.

They were at the edge of the forest, and it would be near impossible for anyone to find him once they left the wooden canopy. They had two days of a head start, and they could go any direction to any place. Even the best of his father's trackers would have difficulty tracing their steps.

(He wondered if anyone had noticed his absence.)

(He doubted it.)

The men around him were cheering and slapping each other on the backs. Legolas was trying to keep on his good leg, but he kept getting jarred with every movement his captor made. With barely the strength to remain upright, the young blonde had to grasp the man's wrist tightly to avoid collapsing to the ground.

The jostling movements were playing havoc on his weakened mind, and he had to fight the urge to be violently sick. The world was spinning around him in dizzying circles, and he was being tossed this way and that in the man's grip.

He clenched his eyes shut, trying to escape all the sensations that were attacking him. He didn't want this. He didn't want this. He just wanted to go home.

He wanted his Ada.

Desperately.

He wanted to sink into his father's embrace and never let go. He wanted to hide away from the world and feel safe and secure and comforted again. He wanted his Ada.

He would take anything over his current situation.

At the very least, the knife was away from his throat, that was one good thing amidst all the terror and horribleness.

Everything else was miserable, though.

Just as he thought this, however, a loud voice cut through the men's chatter.

"I'm afraid I must ask you to release the elf."

Blue orbs snapped open, the blurry gaze revealing an old man garbed in grey. The thick beard and tall staff revealed the figure to be a wizard.

A wizard that Legolas just so happened to know.

Hazily, he wondered how Mithrandir had found him, but then the knife was against his throat once more, and he was more focused on craning his neck as far away as possible.

What a shame, he had rather enjoyed being able to move his head freely, ah well, it appeared as if all good things came to an end.

Was he delirious?

He wasn't sure, but he felt rather delirious. Or at least, he thought he felt delirious.

Focus, Legolas, he scolded himself, and then forced his mind to pay attention to the world around him, despite the overwhelming urge to just slip away into reverie.

Valar, he was tired.

His captor was walking now, hauling him away from the forest. (The trees were crying, why were they crying? He didn't like it when they were upset...) The rest of the men surrounded him, creating a wall between him and the wizard. The humans were yelling at Mithrandir, warning him that if he took a single step in their direction the elf would meet his early demise.

The bearded figure stayed still, watching with sad eyes as the men dragged the young elf away.

Legolas felt hot, all over, as if a great forge was burning inside of him, but he also felt cold at the same time, his body shuddering with chills. His head pounded and his stomach was clenching and unclenching repeatedly in ways that made him want to throw up. His leg throbbed in tempo to the beating of his heart, wave after wave of pain crashing its way through his body.

Was he ill? Elves did not get sick, but he felt almost exactly as Lord Elrond had described, and the blonde could not think of any other reason for his misery.

It didn't matter. None of it mattered. He did not care if he was sick or not, or how it had come to be. He just wanted it to stop.

"Mithrandir would stop it," a small voice whispered in his mind. And so he looked, searching for the familiar pointed hat that was nowhere to be found.

Legolas felt his heart sink. Where was he? He did not leave, right? He would not abandon the young elf like that, not when he was so very clearly in trouble. Right?

Right?

He hoped not, and that was all he could really do.

Time passed, and the men slowly grew less tensed and careful. The blonde was unaware of what was going on around him, slipping in and out of consciousness as the world of reality faded into half formed thoughts and broken memories.

It was in those moments that the wizard attacked.

Gandalf had followed the group from a distance, waiting for their guard to drop down before he struck. He had only one chance, and he planned on using it wisely.

A brilliant flash filled the clearing, throwing all the men quite a distance from Legolas. They landed hard, and they stayed still on the ground even once the light had faded.

And without the grip across his lithe waist keeping him upright, he too collapsed to the ground, a small cry of pain escaping his lips. Once there, he curled into the tightest ball he could manage, attempting to shut out the world for a while. He felt tired, so tired, and so very sore. He was freezing and boiling and everything hurt. And he never wanted to move again, except perhaps to his bed, where he would have liked to sleep for all of eternity. ****

Old gnarled hands insistently pulling him up prevented him from completing those dreams. His bonds were cut- tingles of pain filtered through his hands as they were finally allowed blood circulation- and his gag was removed, and he breathed properly for what seemed the first time in years...

And there was a voice, one that seemed oddly distant in his mind- "Come now, Legolas, it's time to rise. We mustn't tarry long here, and I have no doubts that the spell shall wear off soon enough. Up now Legolas, I know it hurts, I know, but you must get up…"- and he would have ignored it- he wanted to ignore it- were it not for its familiar tone. He knew this voice, and he knew it was important to do what it said.

And so he stood, heavily leaning on the elderly figure besides him and panting hard, but upright nonetheless.

The wizard whistled, loud and piercing and right next to his ear, and Legolas could not help but flinch away and whimper. It was too much, everything was too much, and he wanted it to stop. Why wasn't it stopping?

Gandalf hushed his young charge, trying to soothe him in any way he could. They were not out of the danger zone yet, and he would rather not have to fight a band of men. Still, Legolas' wounded leg was hardly treated, and the amount of blood that had soaked through the cloth was worrying.

The child's forehead was burning against his shoulder- indeed, her could feel the heat through the fabric of his robes- and a glistening of sweat shined on his brow in the mid-day sun. Despite all this, Legolas shivered in his arms, pressing himself against the wizard as if he was the only warmth left in the world. His face was as white as a sheet, besides two heavy blotches of color on his cheeks.

Glancing down at the young blonde's fever-glazed eyes, Gandalf knew that the wound was most likely infected, and that blood loss was a high possibility. The young blonde would need medical attention- and soon- but before he could receive it, they would have to leave his kidnappers far behind.

When at last the horse arrived, the wizard sighed in relief. The elf had gone limp his grasps some minutes before, and his eyes were closed in unconsciousness. (Thank goodness elves were so light, for even his old bones could handle the Legolas' weight.)

As it was, it took several unsuccessful attempts and a lot of quiet swearing to get Legolas to stay upon the horse's back, and every time the young elf was jostled he would let loose a keening whimper and would try to curl into himself.

The reactions tugged on his heart strings, but the wizard was nothing if not persistent, and soon enough they were both on the horse.

The blonde stayed quiet and still throughout the entire journey, which was concerning but not completely unexpected, and when they arrived dazed blue orbs merely flickered open before shutting tightly once more.

The wizard dared not enter the forest while Legolas was injured, for though Greenwood was not yet as shadowed as it would come to be, it still held many dangers, and to bring a wounded elf under its boughs could have proven to be a very bad mistake indeed.

And so they stopped, and made a small camp amongst the borders of the woodland realm. They were concealed beneath a large willow tree, and a small stream trickled merrily but a few minutes away.

It was a good enough spot for Gandalf, and so he set to work.

A flickering campfire was brought to life, and a pot of water from the brook was brought to a boil over it. Next the wizard gathered all the bandages and clothes he had and laid out his meager herb supplies. He created a simple sedative that- hopefully- helped with the pain, and gently coaxed it down the prone figure's throat.

Then he reached for his charge's wounded leg, and- as tenderly as he could- he slowly unwrapped the blood-soaked bandages. (The blonde whimpered as he did so, but made no move to stop him, for his mind was buried deep in the lands of unconsciousness.) When the injury was revealed, Gandalf could not help but close his eyes in sadness, for no child should ever have to endure such hardship.

The bloody gashes that circled Legolas' calf were inflamed and swollen, the lack of proper rest and care preventing the elven body from healing itself as it normally would. Even as he watched, bright red droplets escaped the open wound and dribbled down to the mossy floor below, staining the ground with the blood that should have never been spilled.

It would need stitches, to prevent the young blonde from losing even more blood, and quite a few of them too.

Gandalf was not a healer. He knew not the intricacies of healing potions and all the various ways to wrap a wound. He could not identify a milady with a single glance, nor could he complete a delicate surgery. But he was a traveler, a warrior, a wizard, and, most importantly, a maia. He was not a healer, no, but he had learned much in all his journey's, and that would have to be enough.

Besides this, besides all of his self reassurances, long would the screams haunt his mind, and he would never forget the pained dazed eyes staring up at him, begging for an end to the necessary torture…

By the time Legolas awoke properly, the campfire had burned itself down into a soft amber glow, and light in the sky had long since faded into the darkness of night.

For a few moments, he felt terror run amok through his veins, for he feared himself to still be in the hands of the men, and stuck once more in his cruel bounds.

But then he realized that there was no rope binding his wrists, nor any clothe gagging his mouth. Vague recollections of a figure garbed in grey came to him, as well as the faint memory of the feel of rough cloth against cheek and the smell of pipeweed tickling his nose.

And pain. He remembered the dreadful pain of something piercing his leg, over and over again. The agonizing tremors shuddering through his battered body as he was viciously attacked by the endless torment.

But there was also an old, gruff voice- one that was calm and soothing amidst his sufferings- and it was so very familiar.

And so tired eyes peeped open, and a cracked voice called out into the quiet air.

"Mithrandir?"

"Yes, Legolas, I am here."

Blue orbs closed once more in relief, and the youth spoke to the elder once more, his voice softer now that his fear was put to rest. He was not alone, he was free and safe. All would be well.

"Good…"

His escape to the realm of dreams was cut off by a hand on his cheek- still flushed with color but not so harshly as before- gently patting in order to keep him awake.

"Come, Legolas, you must stay awake, for at least a little while. You must drink, and eat if you can."

Wearily, he let the wizard help him into a sitting position against the willow's trunk. The blanket- When had that gotten there?- that had been tucked around him pooled across his legs, but he paid it little attention. For there was water- cool, blessed water- and he was far too busy drinking all he could to care. His throat was so dry and parched, and he was so busy drinking that he did not notice Gandalf's concerned look.

(Had they given the poor elfling anything to drink at all?)

Once he had drank his fill, the elf pulled the blanket upwards so that it rested around his shoulders, for he suddenly felt cold. He then tenderly took the bowl of broth that was offered to him and sipped at it.

His hands were shaking though, and every muscle felt as if they were lead. His movements were sporadic at best, and it was not surprising when the bowl dropped to the ground, splattering its contents all over the mossy earth.

Legolas stared at the mess, his eyes still glazed with the remains of his fever, and felt tears of frustration well up in his eyes. What was wrong with him? He couldn't even do something as simple as holding a bowl of soup! And why did he feel so horrible? He was absolutely freezing but also incredibly hot at the same time, and his head was pounding and everything was sort of dizzying and his leg throbbed with every breath he took. And his throat was sore and scratchy and he was tired, so very tired, and he wanted to sleep, even though he had just been sleeping, and…*****

A hand was on his shoulder, warm and comforting, and he looked up, startled. Blue met blue, and when the wizard saw his inner turmoil, he pulled the younger into a gentle hug.

And Legolas didn't know why he was crying- Why was he crying!?- but he was, and Mithrandir's shoulder was getting wet and he should really stop- before he embarrassed himself any further- but he couldn't, didn't want to, for he had missed this. He had missed it so much, those soft comforting touches that had somehow become extinct in his life, and he could not quite make himself let go of the wizard's embrace.******

And then the story was pouring out of his mouth, one babbled word at the time. About his father and his coldness, the loneliness of the palace, the crying boy and the horrid metal trap. About his mother's grave and the endless walking and how it had hurt. How it had hurt so much. And how he had been scared, so very scared, on what would come to pass, and how he had been terrified at the thought no one had even noticed him missing.

The wizard listened, silent and understanding, to the whole sorry tale. His gaze saddened, for he stared at the elven child before him who was so desperate for the love and approval of his father. He stared at this kind and gentle soul who loved so fiercely and completely, for the soul had almost been snuffed out, because the child had felt the need to seek his dead mother for comfort when his own father had turned him away.

He was sad, so sad, for he knew Thranduil loved his son. That the elven king loved his son more than he loved life itself, and that the only reason he shut the child away was his fear that he would lose another of his loved ones to the cruel world because of his own foolhardiness, even if the loss of his wife was through no fault of his own.

(And Legolas was so much like his mother… Perhaps too much for Thranduil's grieving soul.)

Legolas was just so good. Such a kind and happy and wonderful child, and Gandalf could not help but think:

Oh Thranduil... Can't you see what you are missing out on?

Not once did he interrupt, not until Legolas started speaking of his fear that he had been forgotten, abandoned, by his own father. Then he spoke.

"My dear boy, why do you think I am here? Your father sent me out looking for me!"

And the blue orbs that stared up at him were so very hopeful…

"Really?"

"Yes, he was half mad with worry…"

And Legolas ducked his head, something incredibly fragile in his eyes, and the wizard smiled.

"Mithrandir?"

"Yes, Legolas?"

"May I rest now?"

And for the first time in days, the wizard laughed.

The young elf gave a sheepish smile, but looked extremely relieved when he nodded his consent. In practically no time at all, the blonde had curled himself into a ball on the ground- one hand reaching out of the blanket to rest on a tree's trunk- with his eyes glazed in elvish slumber.

And later, many days later, Legolas finally arrived home. He was bone exhausted, and all he truly wanted to do was curl up in his bed and sleep, but then King Thranduil came running out into the entryway, where many a elf had come to greet their wayward prince, his panicked blue orbs wide in desperation and fear, and spotted his missing son.

And then he was rushing forward, and Legolas was hobbling forwards as well- as quickly as his still tender leg would allow- and then they met, and his father was hugging him tightly to his chest, only pulling back to plaster tiny kisses all over his son's face, and rocking him back and forth, back and forth, having not a single care for all the shocked stares that were upon them.

Legolas hid his face in the crook of his father's neck, for once more his eyes had become wet. And he was holding onto his Ada as tightly as he could, melting into the embrace as far as he could go, but that was alright, for the king was doing just the same, and there they stayed for several long moments, breathing in the comfort of being safe and whole and together once more.

And there, in those few perfect moments, Legolas remembered the wizard's advice, the words of wisdom that Mithrandir had spoken when he had told his fear of being abandoned. Of being left alone in the world. Of being hurt and captured and tortured once more.

"I am going to tell you something, young Greenleaf," he had said," and you would do well to remember.

This world that we live in, it's filled with many terrible, terrible things, and many terrible people. And going through life, you are going to get into situations where you meet these terrible people, and see these terrible things.

And you mustn't worry about it, nor be fearful for it, because wherever you go, whatever you do, there will always, always, be someone who is willing to offer a helping hand."

And he was right.

...

The most useful asset of a person

is not a head full of knowledge

but a heart filled with love,

with ears open to listen,

and hands willing to help

-Unknown

...

And there you have it, my peeps! The end of A Helping Hand!

Notes:

*I made this celebration up. Do elves celebrate Midsummer's eve? I don't know…

**There's a bit of a Frozen vibe going on here, I apologize…. "Ada? Do you want to stomp on Dwarves' heads? It doesn't have to be a Dwarf's head…"

***Yup, this was the child's father. The bad men were using him and the kid in order to catch the elf, and then they let them go. Hope that was clear enough...

****I too feel this urge at times, in these times I become a human burrito.

*****I imagine that the first time being properly ill, even if it is caused by infection, can be really confusing and horrible for an elf. Especially for one as young as Legolas is in this chapter.

******I hope no one thinks this is OCC. The reason I put it in here is because Legolas is really young and has just been through something incredibly traumatic, and I feel that he wouldn't be able to just let that go with no comfort. Also, he's wounded and feverish and beyond exhausted, and I think almost anyone would be crying at this point.

Elvish:

Naneth: Mom, mother

Ada: Father, Dad

Mithrandir: Elvish name for Gandalf, means "The Grey Pilgrim"

This has been such a joy to write, and I would like to thank each and every person who took the time to read this story. You guys have made this completely worth it, and I really hope that you have enjoyed it!

To Einy, who Favorited this story, Thanks! I'm glad you liked! To SamandJake, who followed A Helping Hand, I hope that you enjoyed this chapter and that it lived up to your expectations. And lastly, to WriterGirl7673, who Favorited/Followed me as an author, THANK YOU!

To the reviewers of the chapter before- Andy the willow tree, CodenameAgentC, WriterGirl7673, SalarahMorgan, The Granduers of Despair, Leledog, and Neril- thank you for your kind words and advice! It means so much to me and I am so grateful that you shared your opinions.

(Also, a note to Agent C, who is a guest. He/She pointed out that the elves in Legolas' chapter seemed to be out of character and rather more petty than they should be. This is an excellent point, and I admit that maybe the Guard elves may have been a little OCC. However, I must say that I do think that there is some truth behind it, for sometimes people can go to ridiculous extremes to ridicule others. These elves thought themselves above all those "weak" mortals, and it showed. Perhaps they would not actually express it in such a way, but it's my belief that even elves are not above being snide and rude, especially if they are young elven warriors who don't have proper respect for others. So yes, perhaps a little bit out of character, but I think that it's also based off of truth. If it really bothers you, Agent C, I can fiddle with it. :) Also, sorry for this note, I'm not mad or anything like that, I'm happy you pointed it out! I just felt the need to explain my decision... I would love to discuss it further with you, if you want!)

I would like to give a special thanks to Andy the willow tree, WriterGirl7673, and Neril, who have been incredibly loyal and amazing reviewers. These guys are truly amazing, and I am so very grateful for their continued kind encouragement and comments. THANK YOU!

And now we have reached the end. As always, I am happy to accept prompts, advice, corrections, and any and all reviews. Thank you so much for taking the time to read A Helping Hand, and I hope you enjoyed! *Hugs*

Signing off until next time,

The Mashpotatoe Queen