Summary: An excitable Raven, a cunning Dwarf, and a warning shot gone wrong all set into motion a new course of events for the Battle of Five Armies. AU for the third movie. I'm pretty much messing with everything here, but it all starts with Thranduil. Naturally. Enjoy!

Disclaimer: Still don't own anything here. I'm just playing in the big literary sandbox that is Middle Earth.

Author's Note: Many thanks to one and all for the positive feedback on Thranduil's conversation with Kili in the previous chapter! It certainly was an entertaining scene to write. Now here we've reached the end of our alternate journey through the Battle of Five Armies, and I hope you'll find it a satisfying conclusion. Thank you for keeping me company along the way!

The Return of the Raven

Chapter 6

More than anything, Legolas wanted to leave. He wanted to run as far away as possible from the feelings and the phantoms that haunted his every step in this accursed place! And it would only get worse once they returned home. There would be no shelter in all of the Greenwood to which Legolas could flee to escape the memories of his friend, for he and Tauriel had together explored every path in the northern forest and every hall in Thranduil's domain. But how could he possibly leave now, when so much remained uncertain?

While the King's health continued to improve, his limited strength naturally forced him to be selective in his duties; the rest of his responsibilities fell to Legolas. It was almost a blessing, in a way. With so much to distract him, the Prince could temporarily lose himself in his work, filling the time until he finally collapsed for an hour or two of fitful slumber. He still had not wept over Tauriel's sudden passing, nor did he want to permit himself the time to do so.

Even when the day of the formal funerals arrived, Legolas kept his turbulent emotions in check. Of course, he couldn't avoid the cold, hard truth when so many of the dead were laid to rest before his eyes; yet he persisted in swallowing down every expression of grief that begged for release until the tension in his chest became physically painful.

Surprisingly, Kili scarcely wept at any of the burials, either; most likely that was because he had few tears left in his body to shed by this point. He now wore his uncle's crown, according to his right as Thorin's surviving heir; but the young Dwarf was so pale and grave that he looked more like a ghost-king than a royal descendant of Durin. He also openly carried Orcrist at his side.

Legolas stood at attention beside his father, watching with him as Thorin Oakenshield was buried inside Erebor with the light of the Arkenstone resting on his breast. It seemed only fitting that the Heart of the Mountain had now returned to its one true home. This sad day marked Thranduil's first public appearance since his injury, though he offered little in contribution apart from his presence. And if every soul in attendance noticed how King Thranduil and Lord Dain pointedly avoided one another throughout the entire affair, no one was foolish enough to mention it.

The Elven funerals, while an even more somber affair, were well-attended by representatives from all races. Not all of Dain's followers were there, but every single Dwarf of Thorin's remaining company came to pay their respects. Kili, especially, would not have missed Tauriel's funeral for all the gold in Erebor. The Elf maiden was buried along with her comrades in an open field where the light of moon and stars would reach them without hindrance.

But before they laid her in the ground, Kili stepped forward, took Tauriel's hand in his own, and kissed it in front of the whole assembly. In an instant, Legolas felt his sorrow shift to jealous anger, his hands clenching unconsciously into fists at his sides. The awful nerve of that Dwarf! What a pity that violence at funerals was so universally unacceptable. Legolas almost came forward himself to place a kiss on Tauriel's cheek, but his better judgment stopped him just in time. Apart from a subtle feeling of tension or slight discomfort, no one else had reacted to Kili's display of affection – not even Thranduil. And so the Prince buried his resentment, along with everything else.

An impressive but solemn feast was then held at the day's end, where all leaders present were expected to give some sort of speech in tribute to the fallen. Gandalf, Kili, and Bard all spoke before Legolas rose to do the same on behalf of his people, for Thranduil had retired to his tent immediately after the funerals. No doubt he was exhausted by now, and Legolas would not have been surprised if his father had demanded more of himself today than his weakened body could reasonably give.

Now the Elven Prince said only enough to be satisfactory in the ears of his audience. And while the words he forced himself to speak were certainly appropriate, Legolas deliberately kept himself detached from their meaning; for he could not keep his head held high if he allowed even more reminders of his guilt to weigh him down again. He would need to confront his inner darkness eventually, he knew; but he would not do so here in the public eye. The Prince resumed his seat when he had finished his address, saying as little as possible for the duration of the evening.

But again, Legolas found no rest that night, not even after all of Dale was dark and still. His anguished spirit would not permit a peaceful repose, and guilt-ridden shadows haunted every pathway of his dreams. At the moon's setting, he stood once more inside the King's tent, staring blankly at the canvas divider as though his eyes could penetrate it if only he gazed long enough.

He took a hesitant step closer to the heavy cloth and said so softly that even the guards outside would not hear him, "Adar? Are you awake?"

"Yes, come."

The response had been uttered quickly, and Legolas breathed a little sigh of relief as he pushed the divider aside. He found the King casually dressed and comfortably seated in a chair beside his desk, a full goblet of wine in front of him. Thranduil did not look at all surprised by his son's visit, despite the lateness of the hour.

Legolas bowed his head as an initial greeting and then reported, "I spoke with Gandalf earlier tonight. When you are well enough to travel and all of our business here is concluded, he and Bilbo will accompany our people as far as the Forest on their journey westward. He expects the Skin-changer will also join us for at least part of that time."

"That is good. It will please me to spend a little more time in the Hobbit's company." Thranduil nodded his approval, content to play along with the mundane for now. There would yet be time for him to draw out the true reason for his son's presence here.

Legolas moved forward then, reaching curiously for the still-closed chest of white gems at his father's bedside. But his distracted fingers closed instead around a different piece of jewelry that lay beside it, and the Prince held up an elaborate necklace that glimmered like green fire in the torchlight.

"What is this?"

"That is the emerald necklace of Girion, lately brought forth from inside the Mountain."

Legolas frowned. "This should have been brought to Bard, not to us. Is it not an heirloom of his house?"

"It was, yes, but now it is an heirloom of ours – a very fine gift to the Lords of the Greenwood from the new King of Dale."

When his son's perplexity remained, Thranduil elaborated, "Bard meant for these gems to represent the ongoing friendship between our peoples, and in all good faith, I could not refuse him. To tell the truth, I do believe he was glad to give them away. He did not look at all comfortable when he came to me with them in hand – at least, not until I had accepted his generous present." The Elvenking allowed for a contemplative pause before remarking, "They would look well on you, I think, should you ever find an occasion to wear them."

"I don't imagine that's likely to happen anytime soon." Legolas set the emeralds down again, subdued and suddenly disinterested in their beauty; his sorrow still ran too deep for him to think about any sort of revelry in the near future. If anything, he felt even more exhausted now than he had the last time he'd spoken with his father, although he had slept a bit since then.

"It is still early, of course," Thranduil went on, "but I do believe there may be hope for the young King under the Mountain. If nothing else, he seems much more inclined to work with his neighbors, rather than against them as his uncle did – so far. What do you make of him, Legolas?"

"I think he will not be immune to the stubbornness of his race, which is bound to lead to some difficulties over time." The younger Elf sighed heavily. "With two novice kings now on her borders, it is fortunate our realm doesn't have one as well."

The King's eyebrows rose in surprise. "And what exactly is that supposed to mean?"

"It means I've come to realize that I make a far better Prince than a King – and that I truly am grateful you are alive."

Rather than acknowledging that admission, Thranduil finally voiced what his keen eyes had observed ever since his heir's arrival. "I have never seen you this weary before, ion-nin. You look as though you have hardly slept since the battle."

Legolas dropped his eyes to avoid the other's gaze and answered evasively, "There is much work to be done."

"A King's work is never finished," his father empathized succinctly. "Tell me, is it really such a trial to wear the crown for a few short days?"

For a long moment, Legolas could find no words to answer. He began pacing in the limited space available to him, opening and closing his mouth several times as his voice continued to fail him. But where else could he shed these struggles of recent days, if not here in the privacy of a royal shelter while the rest of the world slept? And who else would better understand his woes than one who had himself been King for a full age of Middle Earth?

"I have lost soldiers under my command before," he divulged at last, his tone hushed, "but only when we were all acting together upon your orders. Now, for the first time, it is my orders that have sent so many of our people to their deaths."

The Prince ceased his restless pacing before adding, like a confession, "I sent a handful of soldiers with Tauriel to Ravenhill. They didn't want to go, and only did so because I commanded them. None of them made it back alive. How am I any less responsible for their deaths than the Orcs who cut them down?"

"Do you hold me accountable for all the injuries you've sustained while on patrol over the years?" Thranduil countered evenly.

"No, of course not. Everyone knows that regular patrols are a diligence which must be strictly observed, and common dangers cannot be separated from that duty. In ordering those soldiers to Ravenhill, I purposefully exposed them to even greater peril than the rest of the army faced. I only did what seemed best to me at the time…but I should have known that I had doomed them all. Tauriel, too. Maybe, if I had been there myself, she could have been saved."

"You could not be in two places at once, Legolas, and you were right to give your attention to the majority of our people. That is why you delegated the defense of Ravenhill to others, although I cannot say that I would have done the same in your position."

"No," Legolas conceded, "you would have given thought to Elven lives first and foremost, above all others. But what if I hadn't sent them? What if they had remained in Dale and survived, while Thorin and both of his nephews fell at Ravenhill unaided? Would I now blame myself for the ending of Durin's bloodline instead?" He felt his voice growing desperate now, hopeless and despairing. "If this is the burden of kingship, then I do not want it. Please, Adar, can you not take it from me?"

Thranduil regarded his successor with something akin to pity, yet no such emotion infiltrated his words as he replied, "I cannot shield you from your birthright, my child, nor would I do so even if I could. It was good for our people that you arrived at the battle when you did. Your leadership was dearly needed, and you did well."

Such rare words of affirmation chipped away at the walls of Legolas' resistance even further. He couldn't recall how many centuries had passed since he'd last done this, but the Prince came forward and sat on the ground at his father's feet, resting his weary head upon the elder's knees. Thranduil made neither comment nor complaint; yet he seemed to remember the childish ritual as well, because his hand moved almost of its own accord to stroke through his son's hair. Legolas allowed his eyelids to drift shut for a moment, reflecting suddenly on how his father's rings used to catch in his hair, back when he was an unruly Elfling and not as meticulously groomed as a prince should be.

The silence stretched long yet comfortable between them, until Thranduil finally spoke again. "I am sorry about Tauriel…but it grieves me even more to know what pain her death must cause you."

Legolas' throat tightened, and he stared without blinking into a dark corner of the tent, battling even now to hold his tears at bay. He feared to put his next question into words, uncertain of what it might do to this fragile moment; but ask he must, if ever his soul was to find peace. Between his distress and his exhaustion, it was amazing he could get his voice to function properly.

"Adar – when my mother died, how long did you mourn for her?"

The hand on his head abruptly ceased its movement, and Legolas was at once aware of the tension in his sire's limbs. The stillness became oppressive, like a cloying mist, until the Prince felt that surely it would suffocate him. But then a solemn answer reached him from above, so quiet his ears had to strain to catch the words.

"I have never stopped mourning."

Legolas froze completely, not daring even to breathe. For while he could not see his father's face, the shocking sorrow and vulnerability he heard in the King's voice spoke more loudly than any war cry.

Thranduil surprised him even more by explaining, "Not a single moment passes, waking or dreaming, in which I can forget her. Even if I sometimes wish that I could."

No effort, however valiant, could restrain Legolas' tears now. He let them fall freely, thinking both of his mother and of Tauriel. He still strove to be quiet and perhaps hide the expression of his sorrow, yet he could not conceal the changes in his breathing which inevitably betrayed him. And when that same familiar hand returned to tenderly massage the nape of his neck, Legolas finally abandoned all pretense and wept aloud in the full bitterness of his grief, lamenting the loss of so much life while he clung to his father's knees. Thranduil neither drew him closer nor pushed him away.

"My lord Thranduil?"

The Elven Prince jerked, ready to jump to his feet at the sound of Galion's voice calling from the other side of the divider. He would have risen at once, except that the hand on his neck tightened with unexpected force to hold him in place; and so Legolas stayed where he was, noting distantly that such strength must bode well for his father's recovery.

"Not now, Galion," Thranduil sternly reprimanded his herald. "Whatever business brings you here may wait for the dawn; until then, I am not to be disturbed."

"Of course, my King. Forgive my interruption."

When he was sure that the unseen intruder had gone, the Elvenking refocused his attention on Legolas.

"You need desperately to rest," he gently admonished his child, once more smoothing the sunshine locks that lay spread across his lap. "Go sleep, and do not wake until you are truly ready. I shall look to all affairs tomorrow, and see to it that you are left in peace."

Legolas didn't argue. Instead he breathed deeply, trying to gather up the tattered scraps of his composure; after that overdue release of emotions, he felt as though he could fall asleep right here and now. He really was so tired. All the same, he forced himself to stand, and this time Thranduil permitted it, now that the action wasn't so abrupt.

The Prince opened his mouth, suddenly unsure if words of gratitude or repentance would be more appropriate in the wake of such a display; thankfully, the King spoke first.

"But before you go, you must stay a little longer and share a goblet of wine with me. Not to drown our sorrows or our struggles, but to share in them for a change."

His father held out a newly-filled chalice, looking at him expectantly; Legolas simply nodded in agreement and accepted the drink with a weary, melancholy smile.

The End