hi guys!

So here I am again... the last part of "The Games We Play." Personalized review responses will follow shortly, but in the meantime, I thought the best way to express my gratitude for your kind support is through finishing what I started, closing up that cliffhanger, and posting the end to this little story of mine. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it! Without further ado, the final chapter of "The Games We Play:"

P.S. Okay, I lied. With some further ado, lol, please look out for my usual Author's Afterword, which will follow directly after "THE END." For those who are curious as to the method behind the madness, this section will be discussing my inspiration for the fic, specifics (and rationalizations lol) on characterizations, sending out reviewer thank you's, and a discussion of future projects :)

For real this time, the final chapter of "The Games We Play:"

3

Just as the healer promised, the King's wound was a relatively simple one; it was the loss of blood that presented the real hazard. Once resolved, Thranduil quickly moved away from immediate danger and had started recovering, even on the road back to the King's Halls. He was unconscious but stable by the time they arrived, and was settled comfortably in the private, royal wing of the healing halls.

Thranduil's ministers gathered immediately and headed by his trusted war minister, Brenion, they determined their next course of action. All celebrations of the Alaglach were suspended as the kingdom turned toward the rescue of their prince, the recovery of their dead, and the security of their borders.

The ministers quickly assembled a search and rescue party for Legolas, a company to retrieve their fallen kin, and extra hands to secure and investigate the breach into their lands. The Captain Melchanar, who had recently arrived when word of the ambush reached the stronghold, was still armed at the stables and so the first out the doors to search for Legolas. His band of elves, the fiery Nethor included, scrambled behind him. Not to be outdone was Legolas' own collection of champions, headed by his lieutenant, Golwenil. More would follow them.

All too quickly, there were more volunteer soldiers than was needed to venture out. But elves had been killed. Someone had come close enough to hurt their King. The Prince himself was still in danger. It could not stand. It could not be tolerated.

Elves streamed from the gates of the stronghold in well-ordered waves of wrath, just as darkness fell and stars shot across the sky at a rate of thousands for every minute. The soldiers darting forward mirrored the stars that shot across the sky, just above them. Not that anyone paid it any real mind.

It wasn't until Captain Melchanar emerged from the forest, with a bleeding and barely-coherent Legolas leaning heavily on his shoulders that anyone remembered to look up at the skies and see the stunning show of lights.

It was a promise of bright days to carry them through the winter, scrawled across the heavens by what could only be godly hands.

# # #

To the eternal relief of everyone who knew Thranduil, his son was found before he regained consciousness.

Brenion, for one, shuddered to think at what would have happened if that were not the case. Restraining the wounded King and keeping him from searching for Legolas himself would have been in the cards. A quick execution of those who had let Legolas go about his mad little plan was also a possibility. Not that it mattered much for Brenion, who had a feeling that Legolas was right and that his fate was already anyway sealed – Thranduil was not likely to forgive his part in supporting Legolas' defiance, whether or not he ended up being right in saving all of them.

"He might kill you either way, Brenion," the insufferable elf had teased him, shortly before rushing off into danger.

There were no traces of that rueful grin now, Brenion thought, watching grimly as Legolas was brought into the healing halls. He was not badly hurt, but exhausted beyond measure. Captain Melchanar, who had brought him in, reported a veritable sea of felled enemies in the path that eventually led him and his patrol to where the prince and his royal guard were eventually found. The two elves were the last ones standing, if stumbling along and tugging on each other to move drunkenly forward could be called that.

Legolas' guard was tended in the main hall while the Prince was brought into the private space set aside for the royals, at a curtained alcove at the end of the wards. He was sat on the edge of a bed across from the one occupied by his sleeping father.

The soldiers who brought them home were dismissed at the doors, save for Captain Melchanar who had Legolas in his arms, as well as the seniority to insist on carrying the Prince however long he damn well pleased. The healers decided to make good use of his strength and muscle while he made a nuisance of himself there. Maenor, head of the healing wards, gave rapt instructions to him as well as to the elves that surrounded them.

Melchanar held Legolas steady by the shoulders, while a bevy of attendants stripped the Prince of his armor, quiver, tunic and shirts. Legolas' rival captain kept him from falling as the other elves maneuvered his trembling body however way they willed, lifting his arms to free his sleeves, pulling at the shirts over his head and disentangling them from the messy strands of his golden hair. Someone tugged hard enough to disentangle the circlet Legolas had plucked from Thranduil's head, and it almost fell to the ground if not for Melchanar's quick reflexes. He held the kingly bauble in one hand reverently and with surprise. He knew who owned it, but could not comprehend why it was on Legolas' head until the gears started turning in his head. His eyes dawned with realization, and he clutched at it reflexively, before laying it beside Legolas' hip.

The elf prince was beyond noticing it, or much of anything else. One side of his face was bruised and swollen, and there were a miscellany of cuts and bruises on all exposed parts of his skin. He'd also become a boneless, quivering mass barely able to keep his eyes open, much less stay seated or engage with the elves around him. The hours of intense fighting had driven him to mindless exhaustion and near collapse. Once divested of his clothes, it was clear too that he was hurting in less visible ways. The skin on his chest was a mottled mess of blues, purples, reds, and blacks.

"Talk to him, Melchanar," Maenor murmured up at the captain, as he examined Legolas' chest for breaks and bleeding. "I want to know if his thinking is intact."

Legolas was alert enough to hear it, because there was an easy joke to retort to that ("When has it ever been intact?"), except Melchanar was not so quick in that department. Humor was one talent the gifted soldier found in short supply. The Prince, who snobbishly liked thinking he had it in abundance, snorted, and Maenor looked up at him with a wicked, approving grin. The healer had indeed meant to bait Legolas with it, having long been aware of the younger elf's perverse sense of humor.

"Do you know where you are, Legolas?" Melchanar asked, slowly, deliberately and obtusely, in accordance with Maenor's instructions. He was a good soldier and a well-meaning elf. He was all angles, an unfortunate, square peg.

Legolas nodded, but what movement he managed was lost in his body's erratic shaking, and he had no strength yet for words. Melchanar looked at Maenor with some alarm, thinking Legolas was not in a proper state of mind.

The healer, who had already figured Legolas was relatively well – no heavy internal or external bleeding, no bones requiring surgery, no poison, no severe concussion – took pity on the guileless captain and gave him another task to occupy himself with instead.

"Help him rinse his mouth," Maenor said to Melchanar, who was quickly assisted by an attendant who had a glass of fragrant water and an empty bowl. Melchanar did as instructed and took the glass from the elf to place before Legolas' mouth. The Prince was desperately thirsty and almost drank it, before Melchanar stopped him.

"No," he said sternly, "Rinse out first." He took the bowl from Maenor's apprentice and placed it beneath the Prince's chin. Legolas spat out a mouthful of blood-red water; there was cut inside his mouth, and maybe from some loosened teeth. It took them several rounds before the fragrant water, which was tinged with something minty to help disinfect a wound in the mouth, ran clear. Only afterwards was Legolas allowed a drink of water, which he partook of greedily. It was laced with a painkiller that revived him somewhat, allowing Melchanar to step away. It became clear quickly that Legolas was both able to more or less hold himself up, and increasingly embarrassed by his rival's help.

The Prince quietly and resignedly suffered the other elves' ministrations. There were stitches to a sluggishly bleeding wound on the side of his head, another set to his left arm and another set on a diagonal line across his back. There were salves slathered on bruises, bandages on large cuts and wraps wound on bruised and broken ribs. He winced, hissed and growled on occasion, but otherwise kept his head low and his eyes half-shuttered to preserve his strength. He was cleaned with cool cloths that smelled of healing herbs, while thick, hot towels were placed on his main fighting arm, which trembled harder than any other part of him. He sighed contentedly as it eased his discomfort.

When he lifted his head and smiled, looking at something abstract from behind Melchanar, however, he gave his healers a momentary pause. Was he really well, or beginning to see things? They followed his gaze to find the King Thranduil awake, and from the looks of things, he had been for some time. The Elvenking was sitting up with a forbidding expression on his face as he watched his son being tended.

The King was awake. He was aware.

And he looked murderous.

It all but bounced off of Legolas, however, going by the Prince's smiling, sublime countenance. He let himself rest then, and fell forward as he let his eyes drift close. Melchanar caught him cleanly, and settled him on his back on the bed.

# # #

Legolas woke to the King glaring at him, seated on the bed across his own. Either Thranduil had the most astute senses and knew Legolas would soon wake, or he'd just been glowering at his sleeping son the whole time, waiting to let his displeasure be known. Legolas wouldn't put either one past his father.

"You are not forgiven," Thranduil said to him vehemently.

"I am not sorry," Legolas said. He was trying to be funny but found that he very much meant it.

Thranduil closed his eyes in consternation and took a deep, calming breath. For a long moment, there was only heavy silence.

Legolas took it as a moment to rise to a posture of less vulnerability. He rose up to his elbows. They trembled, but held. He knew he had a litany of small grievances, but nothing too serious. He and the guard who had been with him as he distracted his father's hunters, had managed to avoid fatal orc-ish encounters for the most part. They did just as he promised and avoided engaging until they were caught and had no other choice.

It seemed to him as if they fought off wave after wave of enemies, and it was with much surprise that he eventually found the two of them alive at the end of it all. They emerged extremely fatigued, dehydrated, cold and heavily bruised, but alive.

Alive...

He played with the word with a sense of wonder, and sat up straighter. Though his vision wavered and his stomach churned, they settled quickly. He leaned against the ornate headboard behind him, and looked across the way at Thranduil.

The King looked slightly pale but almost back to strength; one would spot the thick bandages on his injured arm only if one looked really closely. He was in lesser robes and seated on a relatively simple bed in a room that was more pragmatic than royal, but he still made it look like a throne.

Except, of course, he was without crown or circlet. When Legolas' eyes drifted about the familiar room, he found the King's property sitting demurely on the nightstand beside his own bed. He winced at having taken it from Thranduil's golden head earlier.

He pushed the blankets away from his body and swung his legs over the side of the bed.

Thranduil was contemplating giving his rebellious son the silent treatment, but he couldn't for the life of him keep himself for asking, "What do you think you're doing?"

Legolas wordlessly reached for the circlet and started to push himself to his feet.

"Keep your seat," the King hissed at him.

"This was misplaced," Legolas murmured, "I only mean to restore it to its proper owner."

"For once in your life just do as you are told," Thranduil snapped. It was unfair and they both knew it, but the King was never one for apologies and at any rate, Legolas neither expected them to come nor needed them to move on.

The younger elf stayed where he was and played with the crown in his hands. He looked like an elfling in Thranduil's eye – no warriors' braids or warriors' ways to tame his hair (or his autonomous disposition). He also seemed much slighter when unburdened by his weapons and armor. And like an elfling, he was pretending preoccupation as a means of escaping the immediate consequences of having just been scolded.

"I know you are angry with me," Legolas said without looking up, "and you have some right to be-"

"Some!"

"-but I implore you to keep such rage fixed upon me and on no one else," Legolas said. "Let me keep the word I'd given those who had been with us when I told them I would carry the consequences of our collective defiance. Let me and me alone bear the burden of your resentment."

"You have some gall to place upon me the burden of word you've so recklessly given to others!" Thranduil hollered. "I will be as angry as I want, for as long and as deeply as I want, to whoever I want!"

"That is your right," Legolas conceded.

Thranduil's eyes narrowed in irritation. He had initially wanted to ignore his son and subject him to angry silence, perhaps for a few hours, perhaps for a few days, perhaps for a yen. But Legolas simply made it impossible. Now that Thranduil had been goaded by his son into speaking and responding – no matter how furiously – it's as if he had forfeited his right to further stony silence and this only angered him more.

"I really am at a loss as to what to do with you at times!"

"I can believe that," Legolas agreed softly. "I suppose, if you had had someone like Melchanar for a-" He caught himself and shook the thought away, steering it instead to a safer, tangential topic. "Do I remember correctly in that it was he who had rescued and held me?"

Thranduil frowned. "What are you blabbering on about?" he asked, but some part of him knew it was important, and though he was sorely tempted to let it go because doing so would be much easier, he decided against it. He sighed.

"Yes, it was Melchanar. But I would hardly call his retrieval of you a rescue. His party found you and your guard stumbling along together, not at all far from our gates. They reported you left a trail of orc bodies somewhere. He and a good number of his soldiers have been badgering us hour after hour asking of you, testing my patience almost as much as the constant badgering I am getting from Golwenil, that giant Silvan of yours and the rest of your company. They want to assure themselves of your welfare. Melchanar, on the other hand, is eager for an apology, I imagine."

Legolas' brows rose. "Whatever for?"

"Child's play and tricks," Thranduil answered. "I think it has dawned on your peers how we both managed to live through this attack. Your ways are not so misplaced in combat after all, are they? But you knew that. You've always known. Even before anyone else."

Legolas gave him a small smile.

"And so by your machinations we are all somehow returned safe here," Thranduil added.

The small light in Legolas' eyes dimmed. "I guess it really isn't by the usual way. I am sorry, ada."

"You cannot help who you are and how you think," said Thranduil cautiously, "Are you really apologizing for that, but not for defying your King?"

"I sensed your disapproval over our victory earlier," Legolas explained. He scratched at the back of his neck in chagrin. He still had the circlet in his hands, and it was such a poor, poor use of it. Thranduil winced but kept the thought to himself.

"I guess someone like Melchanar would have done things properly both at the games and likely, in getting you home safe too," Legolas said, "Someone like Melchanar would have thought of something else and succeeded just as well. Maybe better."

"You think I disapproved of how you won and ultimately, the tactics employed when you brought your King home?" Thranduil asked, aghast. They've been through so much this day and Legolas was falsely worried about that?

"You seemed troubled after I spoke of our victory."

"Oh, ion-nin," Thranduil sighed. Again. By the grace of the gods he'd not run out of breath yet. "I was proud you won and of how you did it. It is not how I – or I suspect anyone else – would have done so, but that is our failing, not yours."

"Yet you seemed displeased."

"Golwenil," Thranduil said, and even now, the memory of the 'blonde' lieutenant disguised as his son swathed in red made him wince. "Your second-in-command. She was lost, and all but swimming in blood. Your plan to risk her... well. I could not help but wonder how it would translate on the field of a real battle. Either you were willing to subject one soldier to a brutal fate – a hard decision I would never wish upon you but I know you will one day have to make – or you were willing to sacrifice yourself. She was supposed to be you, Legolas, and she came out of that game not just dead but savagely so. It could have been you. I did not like that thought.

"And then when we were in a situation of real danger," Thranduil continued, "I had the misfortune of seeing how easily you were willing to sacrifice yourself." He shook his head at the memory. "That is unacceptable to me, Legolas. It is brave and admirable and selfless and sometimes right, but absolutely unacceptable to me as your father and as your King."

"You give me too much credit," Legolas said. "It's not from some sense of valor that I do what I do. There is no sacrifice in it. I don't take risks, father. I find ways. I make plans."

Thranduil gave him a very royal scoff. "You're not reckless then, as a matter of fact you are a planner?"

"I'm not brave or selfless," Legolas said. "I just always think I can win."

"I do not know if this comforts or terrifies me," Thranduil said flatly. He rubbed at the bridge of his nose tiredly. It was an odd way of looking at the world, as if it were made all around of pulleys and levers – objectives that needed to be done, and ways to do it.

"When I think of something I can do to remedy a situation," Legolas went on, "I can't not do it, can I?"

"I've decided this is terrifying," Thranduil informed his son.

Legolas pressed his lips to a grim line and shrugged.

He really was still an elfling, Tharnduil reflected, despite all his skills and achievements. Only young children could have so few fears to check their impulses; all they saw were desired outcomes, and ways to get there.

Thranduil had seen his son in training and regularly read reports of his achievements in the field. He knew Legolas was rising up to be amongst the Realm's, and perhaps even their entire kin's, finest warriors, and for this he was glad.

As Thranduil's son, Legolas' honorary title as Prince of Mirkwood was equivalent to that of a war General - with unfettered access to the King's immediate counsel, a considerable voice and vote in the ministers' tables, unrestricted levels of intelligence reports, and command of any soldiers and supplies he cared to requisition for whichever mission he felt was necessary, as long as the King permitted it. In this style he was Hir-nin, "my lord," or Thranduilion – the King's son.

In the field of battle, Thranduil and thankfully, Legolas' own preference was to keep the order of the soldierly hierarchy. He deferred to higher authority, and distinguished himself by his own merits. He rose to the rank of Captain simply as "Legolas Greenleaf."

One day, Thranduil hoped that the height of Legolas' achievements would match his honorary title, such that he would be General in name as well as in deed; by virtue of his birthright as well as his accomplishments. He was certainly believed by many to be well on that path. He was a great warrior, everyone said, and soon he might even be the best.

But their recent close call was giving Thranduil some pause. Being a leader was not just about being a warrior. Being a leader entailed strategy and creativity which his son clearly never lacked, but it also required patience, restraint and in a sense, dispassion – and these were distinct weaknesses.

Could Legolas keep himself from diving into the front lines? Could he accept defeat and sound a prudent retreat? Could he leave a soldier behind if needed? Could he order his men to their deaths? Could he watch them die? Could he disregard individual needs – like his love for his father - for collective gains - like the preservation of their kingdom? The answer to the latter was a resounding no.

The conservative course of action when Thranduil was bleeding to death and they were about to be set upon outnumbered by orcs in the forest, was to preserve the line of succession and flee. It would have been the right choice. Legolas defied his father the King and ultimately succeeded in saving all of them through his skills and cunning, yes, but also undoubtedly through good fortune. And the survival of their kingdom could not be trusted to fate so callously.

It's just that... it was so hard to impart such a lesson to Legolas because he always ended up being right, didn't he? How could Thranduil possibly teach Legolas the virtues of a wise retreat, of reserve, of cutting losses, of the necessity of compromise, of wins that looked like losses and losses that were still wins if only because you managed to come out alive - if the younger elf always seemed to beat the odds and get his way? And one could only win so much, in this life of theirs.

Thranduil knew, by the gods how badly did he know, for through shrinking kingdoms and brutal battles that have claimed those he loved, did he somehow still see his people through. They were still standing, and still had ground to claim as their own. By brash, uncompromising action their people were near-decimated, once. Was he to lose his son the same way he lost his father?

"May you never know defeat," Thranduil could only say, quietly. It was a father's wish, and he meant it with all his heart. If he cannot teach his son how to find a win he could live with even while in defeat, then all he could hope for was that Legolas would never know it.

Legolas' brows furrowed and he tilted his head at his father in confusion.

"One day," Thranduil told his son, "and I would never wish this upon you, but you need to know it, Legolas. One day, nothing you do will ever be enough to win everything. Do you understand? That being right and being smart and being the best still won't be enough. I need to know that you can stop, take stock, and know when to pull back."

"Well that day was not today."

Thranduil rubbed at his eyes tiredly. No. That day was not today. They survived. Legolas was right. Thranduil sighed. Again. So what else was he supposed to say? What was he supposed to do with his golden child, blessed with a scandalous abundance of luck but not with hard life lessons?

"I need to know you value your life."

"I do!" Legolas exclaimed, exasperated. "Seriously, ada. I am not sure what you want of me. If something is wrong, should I not rectify it? If I am able to remedy a situation, should I not do it?"

"Yes but," Thranduil sputtered, searching his own mind. "Yes but I need you to include, in whatever calculations you make in that head of yours, some consideration of your life! If not for your sake, then mine. If you see the world as objectives and actions, then for the love of the gods, and by order of your King – include personal survival in those objectives once in a while. Is that so difficult? Is it too much to ask?"

Legolas frowned in thought. "No."

The simplicity of the response caught Thranduil by surprise, and he wondered for a brief moment if he was being glibly handled. His eyes widened in anger at the thought of that.

"It is not so difficult," Legolas said quickly but carefully, reading his father's face. "I will adjust accordingly, as the King bids it. As my father asks. But do not ask me to second-guess myself, ada. By my decisions I will live and die, or win and lose. Do not ask me to hesitate. I cannot... I cannot go out there and survive like that. It is death too. I suppose sometimes there is just death... everywhere."

Thranduil closed his eyes in sadness and sighed, wishing he could give his child a better world. When he opened them again, Legolas was on his feet and walking toward him with the King's circlet. The younger elf was shaky, but as he strode forward he became steadier until he was standing beside his father's bed. He handed the small but intricate crown to his father reverently, with palms open and his head lowered in deference.

"This belongs to you aran-nin," Legolas said quietly. "I am sorry to have taken it, more sorry than you know. I have a profound dislike of wearing it, you see. That story only ends in one way."

In Thranduil's death, as they both knew. Legolas, after all, could only be crowned King with the passing of his father. And so, again like a child, he simply never wanted to wear it.

Thranduil reached for the offering, and let his fingers brush the warm palms of Legolas' hands. He rested his hands over Legolas' heavily, and their skin touched palm to palm in between the whorls of spun metal that comprised the crown, a crown that was both their gift and their curse to wear.

Without warning, Legolas' hands clutched tightly at his father's, and the metal of the crown bit against both their palms, hard.

"If it were the other way around," Legolas said, eyes up and intent against his father's face, now. "Would you have left me?"

There was a ready lie on the King's lips. "Yes."

Legolas tightened his grip. "You shouldn't lie."

"Every day that I send you out to the field could be your death," Thranduil pointed out while trying to shake free of his son's hold. "I risk the loss of you, ion-nin, every single day. Do not doubt my resolve. I am not lying."

Legolas refused to yield. "Risk is not the same as certain death," he argued. "Please stop lying to me."

"What do you want to hear?" Thranduil snapped, "I shall say it. Just to put an end to this ridiculousness."

"The fate of our kingdom is at stake," Legolas said softly, "and I am bleeding to death on the ground. Would you leave me?"

The truth was, Thranduil was not sure. But with a silent prayer and apology sent up to his late wife, he stuck to his confident lie. "I would have left you. Does that disappoint?"

Legolas shook his head, and let his father shake off his grip. He looked away. "I don't know what I want to hear, other than that I would have the truth. That you withhold it is the disappointment."

Thranduil bit his lip in thought.

"I'd like to think I would have," the King said finally, after a long moment of silence. "I don't know if I truly could, but if I had to leave you – I'd like to think I would. I need to believe I can do it. Like you said, Captain, there is no second-guessing ourselves here. It's how we survive."

Legolas nodded in understanding. "Thank you for your honesty, adar. Your answer... gives me better perspective. The price of love in this day and age – it is steep, isn't it?"

"It is near prohibitive," Thranduil agreed, quietly. "I have the luxury of trusting I can defy it in theory. I am sorry you had to make a decision in fact, Legolas."

"You are alive and we are together," said the younger elf. "I am comfortable with the choices I've made. I do not regret. I cannot." His lip turned up in the beginnings of a smile – and a joke. "I do regret one thing – that I missed the Alaglach. All those stars streaking across the sky..." He sighed longingly. "And in this my yen of victory too."

Thranduil frowned. "How long do you think you've been asleep?"

Legolas started, and he let himself hope, because he never feared disappointment if he was wrong. He could weather it. He could always weather it.

"Is it still the same day?"

"The celebrations have been canceled," Thranduil said. "But the stars still shoot as we speak. You haven't been unconscious for very long; they should be doing so for the next hour, until the first light of dawn."

Legolas perked up. "We should sit beneath the stars, adar." He hesitated. "That is, if you are allowed to be away from bed."

Thranduil snorted at him. "I am doing better than you, princeling, and have been given leave to return to my own quarters at leisure, as if they could have ever stopped me. You, on the other hand, have barely rested from your ordeal."

"Time is scarce and I cannot miss it," Legolas said excitedly. "I will take care, I promise. It is such a wonder to behold, adar, I cannot wait until the next one 144 years from now, it would be a travesty!"

Thranduil rolled back his eyes. "The healers will insist on examining you before granting permission. They will arrange for an escort, and trappings to keep you warm and comfortable. You will walk with them to the outdoors almost assuredly at a snail's pace, even if you did not need to disentangle yourself from all your well-wishers lingering outside seeking word on your care. Leave it be, Legolas. You will not be outside in the next hour, not even in the next two or three."

The elven Captain bit his lip in thought. Thranduil kept himself from groaning in dread. Ai Elbereth the irrepressible elf was a wellspring of ideas both good and bad, and today he seemed intent on ensnaring his father in yet another scheme.

"I have a quick, quiet way out," Legolas said cautiously. "But I need your word that what you discover here cannot be used against me in the future."

"I do not even want to think about what that means."

"Ah," Legolas grinned, "As the King said – that lack of imagination is your failure, not mine."

# # #

To put it simply, they snuck out.

Legolas, long the bane of Maenor and his staff of harried healers, knew their halls and routines well. Once appraised of his father of the time, he had decent knowledge of where everyone would be and when. Clad in simple robes and stolen cloaks, with blankets in their arms, father and son evaded their 'captors' and left the healing wards without incident. The same went for the occasional well-meaning soldier awaiting word of their health, milling about the healing wards or just outside of it, as well as the roaming night guards they avoided in the King's Halls.

"I've had that horrid, mundane assignment several times before," Legolas explained his acute knowledge to his father quietly. "While I was recovering from an injury, or as punishment for some transgression or other."

"I likely put you there," Thranduil said wryly. Inside, he was displeased by the lapses in security. Deeper within, a mischievous part of him laughed and clawed at his heart, marveling at his son's cunning.

Their last hurdle were gate guards they could not escape, not that they needed to at that point. Thranduil stood before them and simply commanded the doors be opened, and they, unquestioning, did as they were told by their King. He then led the way out the stronghold, and through a path among the trees to the forest river.

The water was tree-lined, but along its considerable length, there were outcroppings of flat-topped rocks and patches of riverbank, unobscured by the thick canopy of branches and leaves that otherwise dominated their proud woods.

On these bare patches along the water, one could simply look up and watch the stars. In some sections where the waters were still, it was like a mirror reflecting the skies, such that there were shooting stars overhead and also upon the earth.

On Alaglach celebrations past, the elves of their woods would have a short ceremony to honor the stars, then line the unobscured riverbanks with blankets and cushions, and sit in small groups of families and friends to watch the heavens above. There would be quiet chatter and soft music, simple food and excellent drink. The King and his son would walk about their people, sharing greetings and felicitations, toasting to the gods. When Legolas got older, he partook of the Dor-winion too, and would be asked about his training and the Yen War Games that were also typical of the day.

Tonight, with the celebrations suspended, the banks were cleared of all company and merriment, and the only ones around were Thranduil and Legolas and the stars.

Legolas had been looking forward to walking amongst his people while suffused with victory from the War Games, but this was beautiful and unforgettable in its own precious way.

He arranged his blanket on a flat rock that jutted from the banks and slightly over the river. It was the perfect spot. When his father stooped to do the same, he tugged at the cloth in an attempt to wrest it from Thranduil's hands. He felt a small resistance before the King yielded the item to Legolas and he arranged it for his father.

They sat down together, Thranduil grunting and keeping his injured arm close to his chest, and Legolas breathing hard from lingering exhaustion coupled with the strain of their hurried pace to get here.

"What a pair we make," he said mildly. From the corner of his eye, he could see one side of his father's lips turn up in an appreciative, ironic smile.

They tilted their heads up to watch the skies. It was like a crafty old wizard's fireworks, but with more reserve, and more nuance. There were little sparks, irregular shapes, and asymmetrical bursts of light. Sometimes they opened like unfurling petals, other times they exploded violently before running in all directions of erratic curves and jagged streaks. Sometimes the starlight burst forth like children racing in a field; with reckless abandon, and all the length and breadth of the world was ahead of them. They were its light.

"They aren't soaring," Thranduil said softly. "People forget sometimes. They are falling. It is a fiery end."

Legolas was agog and breathless. "Oh but ada – how brilliantly do they burn."

Thranduil breathed in the night air, and pondered that. He did not have to fear for his only child's incandescent spirit, oh no. But good gods he had to learn to survive it with his sanity intact.

"Our captors approach," Legolas said softly, a beat before Thranduil too sensed the rustle of discreet but harried and purposeful footsteps.

"I think they fancy themselves our rescuers," the King said.

"Sometimes it's all a matter of perspective," Legolas said lightly.

Unbeknownst to them, they turned at exactly the same time in exactly the same way, just as Brenion, Maenor, Melchanar, Golwenil and a few other elves armed to the teeth broke out of the woods behind them.

Thranduil raised an inquiring eyebrow at them, daring them to question him for his part in the father-and-son escape. Legolas, on the other hand, greeted the arrivals with a sheepish grin and a merry wave.

Brenion grinned back. Maenor shook his head and rolled his eyes in resignation. Golwenil was quick to realize all was well, and ordered her and Legolas' troops to a discreet retreat. Captain Melchanar just looked confused, before bowing at Legolas and the King gravely and making his own exit.

Before long, father and son were alone again. The stars shot over their heads and the two elves watched the gods' great show until sunlight shone over the horizon and obscured by its brilliance the winking light of the distant stars. The night was done, marking the beginnings of a new day. It had been a tough one, but they were alive and they were together to welcome a new season.

The furious light of the Alaglach gives us strength and warmth for the coming shade and cold, the King had said but a few hours earlier, It reminds us that the brightest stars shine most brilliantly in the dark – in the heavens above, and within our own people on the Earth.

Father and son would hold the gods, and each other, to that sacred promise.

THE END

April 30, 2018

AFTERWORD

I. On the Feast Day, The Alaglach or "Rushing Flame"

Totally made up, lol. I picked it up from a combination of the Sindarin "lach," a noun for flame + Noldorin "alag," adjective for rushing or impetuous. I'm not sure of the grammatical rules on which to place first, the adjective or the noun. I'm also not sure if it is wise to mix Sindarin + Noldorin, but I thought, since they share some words, I took some liberties. I know the Tolkien linguists might skewer me on this score, but my knowledge is limited and I am always open to be educated – if gently, haha.

Anyway, grammatical rules aside, I imagine the "Alaglach" to be like a feast for a rare meteor shower, symbolic of shooting stars, which is a representation of the talents on display in the war games.

In coming up with this feast day, I used our own annual meteor showers, like the Perseids and Leonids, as a benchmark. The latter in particular, had a legendary storm in November 13, 1833 wherein there was like, 72,000 shooting stars per hour. That's 20 shooting stars per second! Scary at the time, but must have been breathtaking to see too. Also, mid-November would be a waning crescent moon, so it would be dark enough to see these stars even more brilliantly.

I looked up the Elven Calendar at The Lord of the Rings Wiki (at lotr . wikia . com) to see where a date like this might fit, and lo and behold, on November 13th, the "quellë" (Quenya) / "firith" (Sindarin) / Fading (English) ends, which starts the winter. In short, the timing somehow made sense, haha.

Unlike the Perseids and Leonids of its inspiration, however, I thought the Alaglach shouldn't be annual. I thought it would be more special to have the phenomenon occur only once every 144 years or "yen" to the elves.

The "Alaglach" as it is celebrated in Mirkwood – where people gather outdoors without much ceremony but just to bask in nature with friends and family and food and music - is inspired by the Hanami in Japan. During cherry blossom season in the spring, their parks are just filled with people on picnics or just sitting together on mats and blankets beneath the shade of these glorious blooms of ombre pink and white. It was a delightful experience for me, and an unforgettable one. For those who cannot try it our firsthand – Google images! The photos speak for themselves ;)

II. The Characters

On Legolas. I have a hard time depicting him in defeat, I really do. One of these days this is something I might have to push myself to trying for the creative test of it, but I just can't do it yet. "The Games We Play" though, is I think the closest I've ever come to him falling somewhat short of expectations. He is still the best at what he does, but with a twist – it's not out of heroism or sacrifice, but an almost childlike pragmatism. He just sees objectives and outcomes and ways to do it. He doesn't think of himself as a hero, he just does things. I think that's even more heroic, in a way. But that lack of self-awareness is a weakness too.

I love watching Orlando Bloom play him in the movies, and you see the wheels turning in his head. Like in Battle of Five Armies, and you see him trying to figure out how to get to Tauriel from a tower, or in Return of the King, and he looks at the mumakil Aragorn sort of just ordered him to deal with and he is contemplating how to bring it down. That is the foundations of the Legolas in this fic – the warrior that sees the world as a series of pulleys and levers he can manipulate to get to what he needs to do. He doesn't think of what it may cost him, he doesn't think about losing or failing, he just tries to find ways.

It's admirable, but I also look at him from a parent's eye lately, a marked change since I became a mom. I imagine how I would feel as a parent if I knew my kid was taking all of these ridiculous risks, and the conflict comes out – when he sees a problem and knows he can do something about it, shouldn't he do it? Isn't that what being a good person is about? Isn't that what we hope our kids would be?

On Thranduil. Here he struggles with the same thing. Should he tell his son to cut back from risk? And if his son somehow ends up being right all the time, how can he impart lessons that can curb an undesired behavior?

The conflict is unresolved here, just as my real life one isn't, and I suspect it will never be for parents raising kids in a tough world. You cannot divorce a story from the historical context in which it was written, even if it is "just" fanfiction, after all. I'm finding it hard to ask my kid not to be a hero, but also worried of what will happen if he decides to be one. Do you, for example, tell your kid not to stand up to a bully or worse, a school shooter or a terrorist? Do you keep them from say, enlisting in the armed forces? When kids decide to be heroes, they thrust their own parents into heroic positions of sacrifice too, even if the parents do not choose it themselves.

III. Thank You's

I would like to say a shout out to everyone who sent me kind words and constructive criticism for this story. I usually do PMs on signed reviews, but I've been writing and writing and posting on this story or that story and now I don't even know where to start. I thought, as always, that the best way to express my thanks is to share a tale and finis it first :) Personal thanks will be on their way, but until then, I would like to express my appreciation for:

3326freespirit, AraneltheSilvan, ArwenFairTinuviel, Cinija Nicija, Cling0514, Guest, Hawaiichick, Horsegirl01, Lord of the Gauntlets, pandorias and SuicidalQueen.

I hope you enjoyed reading "The Games We Play..." as much as I enjoyed writing it. I am not exaggerating when I say that readers and reviewers are muses to me too. You stimulate thought, inspire action and encourage community.

IV. Future Projects

I will be posting more one-shots in "The Halls of My Home." In the next few days or weeks I will be putting up "Great Lengths" there, which had been posted as a bonus fic to "Recoveries." For those who didn't get to read to the end of my admittedly rather long-winded afterword where it appeared, the summary is as follows:

Legolas returns from the dangerous Southern outpost missing something he knows his father will be very sorry to lose – long strands of his golden hair.

I might post it as-is, but I wouldn't be surprised if I look through and found a few things I'd want to change with fresh eyes.

I am working on an entirely new story to add to "The Halls of My Home" collection too (probably why I am so eager to just post what I owe so that I can move on already lol), so I do hope you follow "The Halls of My Home," as most of my new fics will probably be posted here, unless they run away from me the same way "The Games We Play" had.

So this is me for now :) Thanks for reading, as always comments and constructive criticism are welcome, and I wish everyone all the best in their RL and creative lives!