Characters belong to whoever international law says they do. Where this is not me I am content. For pleasure not profit.

If the shade of Tolkein still bothers with this Earth I hope he will accept my apologies for my inadequacies in writing for his wonderful creations. It is done with deep respect.

I am not at all sure where this sits. It not a cross over as such, unless its one between a commercial fanfiction and canon but I'm not at all sure how you categorise that.

I'll set as LoR though it is actually set between the end of the Hobbit and the start of LoR and is concerned in getting Legolas back to where he should be, and to who he is.

The Way Back

Dark thoughts upon the road

The hooded rider on the white horse had travelled for two days down the gloaming of the woodland road without sight of any living thing; a sign perhaps of the change in the fortunes of this land. Once, and not so long ago, it would have been madness to ride this path on a loose rein and with a wandering mind, but the rider of the white horse was doing just that and remained unmolested. Had that rider paid more attention to the world around him he would have noticed changes other than that lack of molestation, he would have seen that even in the present cold, and despite the silent emptiness, signs of new life were emerging to be read by those who knew how; and this rider should have read them better than most. Yet he remained oblivious to them as to most of his surroundings instead being lost in some other world within himself.

His silent absorption in his thoughts did not impede his progress, despite the cold shadow of the woodland, for he and his horse knew this path too well to fear losing it. Nor would he be overpowered easily should danger suddenly threaten for he was well armed, with bow, knife and sword, though the need for such precautions was greatly lessened now that the Necromancer had fled his southern fortress and the spiders and other the spawn of his dark magic had withdrawn from the forest. Or so rumour would have it Thranduils power now stretched further from his halls than the day the rider had last travelled this road.

Ahead of horse and rider the tunnel of trees stretched without apparent end, the light within it but a pale imitation of itself as if it had been bled of its power by some snow dragon's evil breath. Yet that air moved constantly despite the confines of the forest, ruffling the smaller twigs and branches until they scraped together in hoarse moans of protest. The sound and the chill at last penetrated the rider's abstraction and he pulled his hood closer around his neck and urged his horse to a slightly faster pace. His grey cloak, though heavy, could not entirely evade the teasing of the wind, each flutter allowing the damp in the air to seep into his tunic and the wind tormented boughs had sent many a shower of falling ice into his lap to soak his breeches and scatter small freezing pellets down the tops of his long boots. A frown drifted across his brow, it was as if fate were conspiring to make his return as miserable as possible.

The seasons had turned seven full circles since he last entered this woodland of his birth. In truth a little more than that, for he had turned his back on home as autumn first turned its face towards winter and now the snow lay heavy in the few forest clearings he had crossed and the freezing chill in the air showed that seasons icy hand to be fully in command of the land. Yet there was no curiosity in his face, nor joy either, he seemed distanced from all around him, sunk in a world that only he could see and hear. If someone had been there to see him pass they would have assumed this inner world was one that gave him no pleasure at all, for he wore a lost and wary look.

He wasn't alone in his misery either for his horse was hanging her head, her heavy winter coat was spattered with mud and ice, and she was clearly hoping to find a stable soon. The rider shivered and patted her neck, for his steed's sake alone they must reach their goal before dark.

They drew to a halt at a small crossing of the path the rider sitting tall in the saddle and scanning the deepening shadow with watchful eyes. The spiders may have withdrawn but other dangers might still lurk here in the depth of the trees, for him perhaps more than for others. That thought sent a wave of sadness across his face and his blue eyed seemed to dim with some sudden pain. He pushed back his cloak, making sure that its folds did not obscure the handle of his short sword. This was a good place for an ambush he recalled, and he had let many an arrow fly from the tall beech over there in the days before all had come to grief.

But now all remained silent and deserted, the great beech no less than all the other trees of the wood, and even his eleven senses could detect no hint of movement or life other than that stirred by the wind, not even the usual scurrying of the forest. True little would be abroad this far into a winters day but the total silence was unnerving suggesting to him that he had been abandoned by all that he had held most dear.

But this was no place to tarry and wonder. The trunks of the greater trees were dark and damp, those branches that still had a covering of shabby green were dusted with ice, and the sky, where it could be glimpsed, was as grey as Thingol's legendary cloak. The shadows were quickly lengthening on the eastern side of the trees, betraying the aging of the day, the pale winter sun had not turned westward before the cloud had overtaken it but he knew that night could not be far away. Time was not on his side if he was to make his objective this day.

Little around him suggested that shelter would be close to hand but he knew that if he followed the off shoot of the main road that wound through the press of saplings to his right he would save many miles and give him just enough time to reach shelter before the light was too poor for his mount to step in safety.

Even so he paused a moment longer shivering with something more than cold.

Doubt seemed to assail him and the look of loss was replaced by one of fear as a string of unwelcome thoughts took hold of him. Was he so truly forsaken? Was this silence rooted in something more than winter? What evil might have befallen his land in the time of his absence, he had heard that the shadow had lifted from the wood but how much of that could he believe? Would he find the halls of his kin as deserted as these trees appeared to be? What might have happened to his father, whose power secured them, in the time since his leaving? As he stared into the dimness of the road he felt a wave of impatient anger at himself, why had he been wandering the byways when he should have been here protecting this homeland and his kin!

The sudden thought of his father tore at his heart and a look of deep distress settled on his face as a bitter regret for the time and manner of his leaving took hold of him again. Some shame too as memory of the reason for that leaving surged. But such thoughts were not new, they had ridden with him everyday of the last seven years, and though that period was usually as nothing to an elf for him it had seemed a thousand years. He had thought that his return would give him mastery of them but it seemed that was not to be the case. With a sigh at the thought he urged his weary horse onwards again. She knew the road well and her ears pricked forward as she scented the familiar air; her rider however seemed once again to be oblivious to all around him. As he rode through the places of his past there was no escaping either his thoughts, nor his doubts and fears. Had the weather been kinder or the day less advanced he might well have turned aside from the road so dark were his musings.

Too late now to undo what had been done, too late to prevent the harm that might have flowed from his actions. Too late perhaps to make amends to those who had endured the outcome of the battle when he had run from it. Too late to unsay things that should never have been said. Nothing of the past could be changed, no more than what lay before him could be. 'Home, he was going home' he reminded himself. His heart should be lighter than this and there should be a song on his lips not this sense of hollow grief. Never did he recall feeling so much trepidation, such regret, on such a journey.

Yet it mattered little, for the price, whatever that might be, would have to be paid unless he was to banish himself forever.

Once he had hunted beneath these trees with joy in his heart, not even the relentless forays against the spiders dampening his good humour and pleasure in the forest. He had asked for nothing more than to spend his days beneath elm and beech bathing in the deep green light of their shelter and the bright yellow shafts of the sun where they permitted it. The song of his people, the comradeship of his brothers and sisters of the bow, the companionship of his fellows and his father, on these had his life and pleasure been built, and he had never expected that to change. He had never doubted his future; he would find his one true one and found his family here amongst the trees and within the protection of his father's halls.

But nothing was as it had been. In those days the forest would have spoken to him, tree and rock and every running brook sharing their song to welcome him home. Every one of his folk would have felt his return and been glad of it, but now there was only silence and a void where once the presence of his people would have been. In the face of such silence he could only wonder what affection remained to him. The deepening gloom seemed to echo his memories. He knew the fault to be his alone, for he was his people's prince and they had the right to expect more constancy from him.

He had been tested and he had failed.

That had been a dark day indeed. The battle within a city ruined long ago by greed and pride, a pride no less than the one that had sent him fleeing the consequences of his actions and mistakes. To his own eyes that departure now looked a little cowardly, with more of the child about it than his years could defend. To leave at such a moment when his people were dying, and when his father, his king, had been besieged on all sides could not be excused for any hurt. For he knew even as he had raised his sword in a needless defiance that his father had been facing a terrible choice, torn between duty, the need to preserve his companies, and his desire to see the battle won. Yet with the bitter knowledge that that even if he retreated and left his dead he could only postpone this fight. The dragon was gone yet the coming war might still burn their world,

A sliver of ice fell on to his cheek and the rider closed his eyes as the memory of his father standing in the snow returned, and not softened to any great degree by time. How that memory had mocked him during the days of his wandering! It came to him in every dream and moment of quiet, his father with despair and loss so clearly written in his face as his son had spat accusation and challenge at him. The father who had loved him, fresh from a battle not of his choosing, his face still spattered with the gore of the enemy, and with the life blood of his dead staining his boots, attacked by the two whose loyalty he had most right to expect.

His father had grieved for his dead and for his son, but that son had turned away as if indifferent, had left him to bear that grief, and the grief of all his people, alone. Even when he had seen his disillusion complete he had made no apology. The eagles had come and the battle tide was turned but he had not waited for the final outcome, or to see the boats of the dead prepared. Lost in his own misery he had taken a fast horse, this horse, and sped away from the source of his pain, first north and then west.

Yet his flight had brought him no peace. Elvish memory was long for both pain and joy; it was something that had to be mastered if an elf was to remain within the world. In the first days of his flight he had wondered if he could bear it, feared that it might consume him, driving his spirit from his body to wander the world unseen until the end of days. Perhaps it was the painful memories of his father that had kept him anchored in the world for he found that much as he wished to let go of all that had been he could not, that something within mocked him for the very thought.

He had sought out the Ranger called Strider but found no sign of him, either north or south, nor met any who had heard of him. Only then had he wondered if his father had offered him the quest, something to pursue, so that his flight might not be totally without purpose. That he had given him a task to keep him anchored in the world. The thought weighted his spirit further for it spoke loudly of how fearful his father had been at the moment of their parting. Yet it also gave him strength for had he destroyed his father's love then he would not have cared enough to create the quest. In the lonely watches of the night as he lay and listened to the singing of the earth around him he held that action in his mind and warmed his heavy heart with it, and promised himself that when the time was right he would go home.

It was on the first day of spring of the third year after his leaving that he had realised that, though he grieved still for all that had happened, he thought of her no longer. Except perhaps to wonder where she had gone, for he knew that she could never return to the Woodland realm. Then he had experienced true bitterness, for he knew that he had been mistaken in his desires and that everything that had followed had been for naught. Sitting under a starlit sky he had watched the land below him and understood what he should have always known, had she been the one then they would both have known it, there would have been no question. Had she been the one and his rank had weighed upon her then she might have held from him but she would not have pursued the dwarf. Only then had he wondered what his father had known of the matter, for he was far sighted in many things and had known her well, if he had understood the hopelessness of his son's case then much was explained.

He had thought of returning home then, had even made a start upon the road, but as he had entered the empty lands to the south of Mirkwood his spirit quailed and he turned east towards the Great River, skirting Fangorn and crossing into the Wold. Then, passing south of Lorien, he had turned his horse's head towards the foothills of the Misty Mountains. For most of the rest of his travels he had avoided the world he was used to, keeping to the fringes of the mountains and the settlements of the children of men that dotted them.

The seasons had turned and turned again and still his heart remained heavy, the memories hanging like the webs of the great spiders over all his days. When he slept his dreams all too often pulled him back into the foothills of the lonely mountain and the bleak plateau of Ravenhill. Sometimes he felt that he was drowning in that icy river and he wondered what cold shores he would land upon and if he would ever find himself again.

At one point he had returned south and camped above Drimrill spending long summer nights staring out across the great River towards the shadow of Dol Guildur and the tower of the Necromancer, now dark and empty. It held a strange fascination for him, the sight of it bringing a feeling he could not explain. He had wondered if he should cross the river again and make some assault on that dreadful place, to make amends by ensuring it could never again threaten his people. As he watched the starlight dust its grim towers with silver he had considered if doing so would restore his peace. If he were to perish there at least his death might have some meaning and his father would never know of it.

But caution had prevailed, it remained an evil place so he had heard and there could be no certainty that the fleeing sorcerer had not riddled its very stones with dark spells and curses.

'What if the sorcerer had not fled, or had returned?' a part of his mind argued. 'What if he were taken by the Necromancer? Would such a foul creature not use the Woodland Lord's son to bend that canny king to his will? How much more ill might he do in the pursuit of redemption?'

Yet the thought of such an assault would not leave him and he found himself drifting ever closer to the low lands and the sight of the trees at the southern tip of Mirkwood.

In desperation he had sought distraction and more knowledge, and so in the sixth year of his wandering he had summoned up his courage and travelled west again finally entering the domain of Elrond the lore master.

The first time he came here it had been a rare occasion when his father had taken time for a visit of state to introduce his son to others of their kin beyond the Woodland realm. He had just attained maturity, a young elf prince whose horizons had been limited to the forests of his birth and the lands to the east. He had been bewitched by its beauty, the open spaces and mighty waterfalls that sent rainbows shimmering above him, a land so different to the forests of his home. Never before had he found himself amongst so many members of the Eldar and, though he had always considered himself to be a Silvan prince, for the first time he had felt the full weight of his Sindar descent. It had also been the moment at which he had realised how few in number were his close kin within the world and how great the numbers of his father's people were by comparison. Until that time he had not understood how much smaller these lands were when compared to the vastness of the realm of Mirkwood.

But he was no longer that young prince and he had long ago come to understand his past and its legacy, in truth he had accepted the respect and the welcome offered to him on his later visits as his due. There had been many other visits, for though much of his father's concerns were with the lands to the north and east of Mirkwood his kingship required that he maintained good relations with his Eldar kin and with the kings and other leaders of the children of men. But Elrond had always been the most frequent recipient of letter and visit and it was from the lore master that he had learned much of the history of his family and realm.

The beauty of Elrond's home was no less than before but his pleasure in it was much diminished, for everywhere he turned the echoes of the past intruded. His discomfort was fed by the curiosity, polite though it was, of those around him, for he had little to offer as reason for the visit, other than his questions about the Necromancer, and no letter from his father to explain it.

His host was courteous as ever but, like his father, Lord Elrond had far seeing eyes and must have noted his disquiet. But he had been kind, had asked few questions and answered many. As they sat before the fire, carved goblets of wine in their hands and with the sound of the harp drifting across from the other side the chamber, he had asked about the Necromancer and Dol Guildur. He had already heard rumours within Elrond's hall that the events there had not been as the White Council had expected and was more anxious than he liked to appear.

His host had been silent for a while staring down into the dark red depths of the wine as if lost in memory, then he looked up and he was sombre eyed and thoughtful; there had been a hint of sorrow in his voice as he replied.

"Perhaps we delayed too long, "

He turned to stare into the fire as if reading the past within it.

"Perhaps we did not want to believe that the spirit of evil had returned. Your father had long been concerned and had challenged the White Council to make a better assessment of the Necromancers power more than once, but in our error we had not felt the matter to be of any urgency. For that we owe your people some apology."

He sighed.

"Thranduil has always believed that Sauron would return in some guise, and the sorrows of his past battles against the darkness have given him not only a dislike of war, warrior though he is, but also considerable caution where the unknown and unexpected is concerned."

Elrond shrugged and watched his silent visitor for a moment, taking a sip from the ancient cup in his hand. Blue eyes watched him closely and he found himself thinking how like his father this prince was. Finally he drained his own cup and gave a rueful smile.

"Perhaps it was simply that he saw the evidence more clearly for I know that your people have fought long against the spiders spreading from the south. He would have had us act before we did but the Council balanced the risks of that action against the fortress and the nature of the current harm and agreed long ago that we would not take any direct measures unless it became clear that the evil was growing. Thranduil accepted that, though I recall it took considerable effort to convince him, and he moved his people further north so that the creatures of the dark would find it hard to follow. But though the evil pursued him, as you will know, he and we contained it."

Elrond rose and poured them both another glass of wine.

"None of us considered that the Necromancer was any great threat and certainly never did we suspect that it was the great evil returned. The spiders were the only true sign of the influence dwelling in that fortress and though they poisoned the forests it was not to a degree that could not be recovered. It did not seem such great magic of itself and still we thought that the evil that had once dwelt there was gone and what little remained was sleeping. "

"Yet it proved to be the greater evil?" the visitor said quietly hoping to hide the fact that this was something of which he had no knowledge.

Elrond sighed again.

"Yes. As I said we knew it to be an evil place full of dark magic and fearful spells, but that the spirits of the nine had wakened was unexpected. Much less…"

He stared into the firelight again his mouth set in a grim line.

"Only lately did we fully understand our peril. Weak as Sauron reemained only Lady Galadriel could act against him and it tried her sorely. Had we delayed but a little longer the matter would have been grave indeed. As it is he has fled to the East and while the ring remains lost he will stay there never again to wield power in Middle earth."

"And if the ring were to be found?"

Elrond met the watching eyes with deep gravity.

"Pray that it is not. But if fate should decree it so then it must be denied to him at all costs. Were he to regain it the world would burn again and all light and life would be lost to darkness and pain."

The visitor leaned forward in his chair and the blue eyes seemed to light with some unexplained fire.

'What then would be your council? Sauron is gone you say, should I venture to Dol Guildur so that I may report its state to my father? Should we look to pull down its walls?"

Elrond looked at him in concern, a deep frown upon his usually calm brow.

"Has Thranduil given you such a task? Is that in his mind? I would not have expected it of him! Is that the reason for your journey, does he fear that even now we chose to leave his kingdom at risk? Fear it so much that he will risk his son? How little trust of us must remain in him if that is indeed the case!"

Elrond rose quickly and came to stand over his visitor, dropping a hand onto his shoulder. The fire shone on the silver diadem that bound his dark hair and set a red glaze upon his pale skin. Grey eyes met blue with an intensity that had never ocurred in their conversations before and the visitor felt a surge of forboding. If Elrond read the look he said nothing of it but there was urgency in his tone.

"The relations between Noldar and Sindar have not always been as I would wish them but I thought us past such internal strife. We are the firstborn, brother and sister since the creation of the world despite all the ill that passed between us. We have fought the great darkness together before and only together can we banish it again."

He smiled a sad smile.

"I have fought alongside your father at time of great peril, starved and suffered with him. I have walked in the blood of enemy and friend and buried the mounds of our dead with him. Is all that forgotten? Does Sauron succeed at last in driving the tribes of the Eldar apart?"

Elrond saw his visitor swallow hard on some thought or feeling that he could not read and a cold hand clutched at his heart. He tightened his grip upon the elf prince's shoulder and spoke quietly but with the same urgency.

"If such a rift does exist then tell me now so that I may take measures to repair it, for a time of trouble is hastening towards us and such discord might be the world's downfall."

The other shook his head.

"There is no such rift that I know of and he has not bid me go to Dol Guldur, but the quest he tasked me with has come to naught and as I passed around the south of Mirkwood it came to me that a lone scout might go about there unseen and learn valuable information by the visit."

A look of relief passed across Elrond's face and he relaxed his grip.

"I see. For that I will admit to being most grateful but with your leave I will charge you with message for your father all the same, from myself and all the council, to deliver when you return home, I would not have him think that our failure to act sooner was for carelessness. "

The visitor nodded and smiled slightly.

"I do not return home immediately but I will carry the message with pleasure."

Elrond returned the smile but he felt the tension in the shoulder beneath his hand, a betrayal of something he still could not fathom, there was a momentary flash of something deep in his clear grey eyes that could not be read by his visitor.

"In your time my lord for they will travel best with you. As for the fortress I would ask that you stay away form it, for nothing and no one goes unseen within the shadows of that dread place. The time to tear it down may yet come but not until the evil can be considered truly banished or our need is dire beyond imagining; for the moment caution still seems the best course. The evil one is gone but the shades of the nine may have returned. They are weak without their lord's power and will pass once more into unquiet sleep, bound to those towers by the dark magic of Sauron provided the ring remains lost. Leave the place be my lord, the creatures of lesser evil are dispersing and it will cause no more trouble for your kin if all stay away."

He turned and seated himself in his chair once again, his robe pooling in a river of deep red around his feet. For a moment he seemed to turn his attention the music of the harp and the taste of the deep red wine, but it was only a little time, barely a verse of the song drifting upon the harp strings, before he spoke again and it was clear that the track of his thoughts were unchanged, though he continued with apparent care.

"I have heard that many of Sauron's new legions were destroyed at the battle of the five armies. If that is so then it is cause for some joy, as it will slow his return to power and may purchase many seasons of peace."

He looked into the blue eyes watching him from across the firelight and spoke softly.

"But that peace has cost your people and our other allies dear, for which there is also much sorrow."

He paused as if listening once again to the song and his eyes seemed to seek back into the past as if reading some ancient wisdom in the music. Then he drew a deep breath.

"Peace we may have but I fear it will only be for a short time. The loss of Samug may slow the coming of the time of trouble but I do not think it will prevent it, that nothing can, and great sorrow still awaits the world."

When he received no answer to his remark but an inclination of the fair head opposite he turned his eyes back to the depths of his wine.

"Dain is now king under the mountain, a situation that must be lived with but I confess it will make for some difficulties in the future. He never been the most reasonable of dwarves, and they are a generally difficult race. It will be fraught with difficulty for your people in particular, as you must already know; Dain distrusts our kind and has long disliked your father's power in the area around the mountain. He considers the friendship between men and elves to be a general threat and your own kin a particular one. Few elf lords remain in Middle earth that could raise an army to challenge the dwarves of the Iron Hills and their kin, but the king of Mirkwood could do so and much more."

Elrond turned his look back to visitors face with calm but considering eyes.

"Your father has no reason to love the dwarf nations I know and every reason to distrust them, will he make the effort to ignore Dain's provocations do you think?" He smiled gently, "for I expect those provocations to be great."

"So I believe." was all the reply that the visitor could manage.

Elrond smiled again but had not pressed him further, instead sitting back in chair and sipping from his wine and staring into the fire.

"Well Thranduil has never been a hostage to anger," he said eventually, "for he has lived long enough in this world to know its price, and he holds his oaths of kingship to be a sacred trust. He will be master of his annoyance unless Mirkwood itself is threatened."

He looked again towards his visitor.

"But with the dragon gone the security of his northern borders must be a matter of concern to him, and indeed to all of us who would see the northern and eastern lands held safe. Let us hope that Dain proves stalwart for I hear that the battle was fierce and though the army of the shadow was much decimated the losses of the alliance were also heavy. Tell me truly, were so many lost?"

The rider drew his horse to a standstill again staring down the path as snow started to fall more heavily; he closed his eyes and hung his head at the memory of that question for he had had no answer to offer Elrond, nor any hiding from the bitter shame of not knowing. The hint of sympathy and understanding in Elrond's eyes had nearly been his undoing and only pride and the thoughts of his father had kept him from betraying his grief and pain.

He had left Rivendell with Elrond's letters and that shame still burning in his heart.

How was it that the grief for the loss of one who had never been his had shut him off from the grief for those more truly lost? Elrond had dwelt long in the world and seen much sorrow and he would have understood, but how would others see it? Not well he would wager and what would that mean for his future?

But the past could not be changed and he would have to face the results of it at some point, the truth was that he yearned to be home, ached to be back amongst those he called his own folk. More than anything he wanted to defend this forest that was his home, his birthright; and his wandering had taught him that it would need to be defended, and maybe sooner than he, or any, would wish.

A stamping of feet and a soft whinny brought him back to the present moment. They had been still too long for the weather; he leant forward and stroked the snow spattered mane in apology.

"Forgive me my wandering wits" he said softly. He cast one more look around him then leaned forward in the saddle again to flick the ice from his horse's ear.

"Not long now and you shall have shelter and the sweetest hay you will ever know."

He spoke softly as if afraid to dislodge more ice from the rimed trees. Pulling his hood further forward he shivered.

"I hope that my welcome will be half as warm."

With a gentle nudge he encouraged his horse forward again. He had come this far and he must continue, for he must know if he still had kin, if he was still Legolas, son of King Thranduil, Prince of Mirkwood or simply a wandering elf without family or folk.