Chapter 8

(The final chapter)

The song of the Valar was soft and melodic; it wove through the trees of Mirkwood and reached the ears of the Elven King.

"You are Sindar." The song wrapped about him like a comfortable cloak. "You belong with us."

It would be so easy, so very easy, to go with them.

You belong here, insisted the grip of his son's fingers, tight around his own.

Thranduil's fae fluttered, seeming to lift a little from its customary seat within his physical form. He sensed it clearly; an injured, grey, exhausted part of himself. It would be the easiest of things to let go and drift away with it.

"I have had a long life." The ancient Oak broke into his thoughts, a hint of censure in its message. "Yet you were a King long before I was an acorn. The forest is under your care and harsh times are upon us. You are immortal. You are the Elven King. It is your duty to endure.

Thranduil's eyes sought his son. Legolas sat beside him, head bowed, the green and gold of his fae surrounding him with the haze of sunlight through green summer leaves. His fae had not been so easily visible since he was an elfling, and the natural joy and vigour of the mature elf was easy to see, although Thranduil noted a certain transparency, an appalling frailty, caused no doubt by the current situation. It pained him to think he had affected his son so deeply.

"Legolas needs you to live," said the Hazel, its voice warm in his thoughts. "Your elves need you. And we need you."

They were the most persuasive arguments anyone could have presented, but the remaining life within the charred wilderness of the Elven King's own fae was withering, turning brown and dry as it fell into a choking carpet of ash. It was with a sense of immense regret that Thranduil watched his son disappear from view beneath the dark curtain of his eyelids. For a moment he felt Legolas's fingers, burning hot against the cold ice of his skin, and then there was only the rapid and shallow fluttering of his own pulse.

Legolas felt him let go. There was a subtle change in the tension of the hand held in his own, his father's body sinking a little deeper into the covers. The remainder of Legolas's shored up façade of brave defiance cracked into a thousand pieces, tears spilling unnoticed down his cheeks as he bent in silent grief over his father

.

Outside the shelter, Tarthalion waited, his stance formal and forbidding, fully aware it may be the last duty he would perform for the elf he had served for thousands of years. It grieved him greatly to admit that there was nothing further he could do for Thranduil, although there was some comfort in the knowledge that the only one who could help the King was already at his side.

There was an unnatural silence throughout the encampment. All had witnessed the rapid departure of the healers and the sense of despair surrounding them. Many elves glanced in Tarthalion's direction, desiring to enquire after their King, but none dared to approach the warrior's grim visage.

From his position next to the shelter doorway, Tarthalion's keen ears easily overheard the conversation between the Elven King and his son. It seemed that at last they had spoken openly. Even so, he feared greatly for Legolas. It was not unusual for an elf, faced with the death of a loved one, to become so grief-stricken that they faded themselves. His own long existence had brought him into contact with many beings affected by such grief. It seemed to him that both mortal and immortal suffered greatly. Mortals, aware that they had only a brief existence, seemed to love easily and often with whole-hearted enthusiasm, choosing to forget that loss was inevitable. Although they expected death, they were devastated by its premature arrival, the impact often affecting a large portion of their short lives. In comparison, immortal elves had an expectation that life should last forever and the loss of someone was naturally a grievous shock. The closer bond between their souls and physical bodies often led to the consuming despair known as fading. Many elves sailed west or simply died themselves.

The healers had expressed grave concerns that Legolas may fade if the King died, yet Tarthalion believed that the younger elf would endure, kept alive by his strong sense of honour and duty to the elves and realm of Mirkwood. The warrior held close the knowledge that Legolas was very much his father's son, and Thranduil had survived loss against all odds. The young elf also had much of his mother about him, and although she had appeared a delicate flower, she had been for many years a bloom that could survive the hardest of frosts, her strength evident on those rare occasions when her husband had retreated into his shell and could offer her nothing but an icy exterior.

The question was, in what state would Legolas endure? Already there was a visible dimming of his fae, a lack of lustre in the normal brilliance of his blue eyes. Would he become a grey and withered version of the Greenleaf they all knew and loved? Would he too become an isolated and sorrowful King, hiding behind a veil of his own making, fated to follow in the tragic footsteps of his father? The death of Oropher proved how easily a powerful being could be wrenched from life, whilst Thranduil had been living proof of the consequences of endurance with a broken heart

They were questions that brought a heavy feeling into the ancient elf's chest, one that turned to lead when he heard the muffled but unmistakeable sound of the grief of the Elven King's son.

.

Legolas bowed his head, a silent howl erupting from his fae and lungs alike. The pain was immeasurable, jagged and sharp with the knowledge that the intelligent, intense, frustrating, complex, fascinating, infuriating and wounded being that was his father was about to pass from Middle Earth.

Images, some long forgotten, slammed into his mind: Thranduil looking down his nose in haughty disdain as he cast aside his cloak in disgust; Thranduil bathed in golden candlelight, toasting him with finest Dorwinion with a raised eyebrow and a humorous look in his eye after some misdemeanour of the younger elf; the King lounging upon his throne in bored repose; the King arrogant and splendid in ornate armour as he slaughtered spiders with graceful precision; Ada clad in simple green with love in his eyes and a huge smile as he went down on one knee and held out his arms to his son.

It was overwhelming. Legolas's hands settled on either side of his father's face, his fingers shaking and trembling as though he suffered from some terrible fever.

"I'm sorry, ada. I didn't tell you." He dropped his forehead onto Thranduil's chest, one hand still caught in the pale strands of his father's hair, the other gripping onto the remains of the tunic lying over his hip bone. "I love you. I do love you. Even when I thought you didn't love me. I always loved you." His shoulders shook as he was overcome by silent and wrenching spasms of grief.

.

In the inky darkness where he floated, Thranduil heard the words. Or perhaps he saw them, for it seemed to him they were brilliant runes emblazoned across the darkness.

His fae was the cold, grey ash and blackened branches that remain after the fiercest of forest fires. All life, diseased and verdant green alike, was gone. Yet, as in those seemingly dead landscapes, the fall of simple drops of moisture work a wonderful magic. So it was that the tears of his son, flowing unchecked upon the skin of Thranduil's chest and neck, fell into the ash that formed the base of his soul. And there, like raindrops, they awakened life. Tiny seeds, waiting for just such an event, sent out small shoots, and these in turn grew tendrils and stems. Gradually the forest began to sprout, green reaching up towards the sun, where before there had been only choking clouds of smoke.

Unsure, Thranduil faltered, but the love of his son had the vibrant strength of a young tree in springtime. It drew him up out of darkness as though he was the sap rising from roots to trunk to branches. There, feeling the warmth of the sun, the leaves unfurled and with no small amount of effort, Thranduil's eyes opened.

He blinked, deeply surprised to ever see the light of Middle Earth again. The all-encompassing pain in his chest seemed to have gone and he relished that lack for a moment before he was distracted by the feeling of something small that ran quickly across his sternum and down over his ribs. Another followed, then another, and he raised his hand to find moisture and above that soft hair that he knew immediately was not his own. He tilted his head slightly and saw that his son's head lay upon him, his hair a tousled mess of unravelling braids.

"Legolas?"

His son jerked, raising startled and bloodshot eyes that regarded his father for a couple of heartbeats before he dropped his face again, his fingers digging almost cruelly into Thranduil's hip while his shoulders heaved with sobs.

The Elven King struggled to move, pushing against his own weakness and the warm weight against his torso.

"Legolas! Are you hurt, ion-nin?"

Even as he asked the question, Thranduil recalled the words emblazoned in the darkness, heard the cry of grief uttered by his son that went unheard in the physical world, and realised Legolas had thought him dead. He raised his arm and caught hold of his son, pulling him in tight.

"What did I do? I have caused you to suffer great pain."

"I caused this." The younger elf's breath was hot on the skin over his ribs.

"You did not." Exhausted as he was, Thranduil could still inject a fair amount of force into his words. "This is my doing. It is my weakness and fear that brings us here."

Legolas raised his head again, his face a study in disbelief. "How can you be weak, ada? You have faced the foulness of Sauron, the terror of dragon fire!"

Thranduil cupped his son's jaw with firm but tender fingers, looking him directly in the eyes. "I was so afraid to lose you, I drove you away." He gave him a little shake. "Mordor…" A deep breath. "Dragons. They are nothing compared to the fear of losing you."

Legolas stared at him, a myriad of expressions chasing across his features, finally settling on heart-felt relief.

Releasing his grip, Thranduil gently pushed aside some damp hair from his son's cheek and stroked his golden head with a soothing touch, one he had not used since Legolas was an elfling. His words were very firm, very clear. "I do love you, ion-nin. More than immortal life itself."

Legolas sighed, tension dropping away as his eyes warmed to a brighter blue than the Elven King had seen in some time. "I thought I had lost you."

"I am here. My intention is always to be here." Thranduil smiled at him gently, considering the grey lines of stress and weariness on his child's face. "You are exhausted."

Legolas gave a tearful laugh. "More than I can say."

"The bed is wide." Thranduil noted the war of hesitancy and want in his son's eyes. "It would comfort me, to know you are resting here."

With a firm nod, Legolas shifted gracefully onto the bed beside him, the warmth of his back tight against Thranduil's side. Within moments his breathing slipped into the easy rhythm of sleep. After a time the Elven King rolled carefully onto his side and draped his arm over his son, breathing in the scent of him, so familiar, bringing so many memories of his precious little elfling snuggled against him. He thought the moment may be a gift from the Valar, and something that would most likely never happen again.

"It is my intention always to stay here," he repeated softly. "Although I fear your destiny may require you to do otherwise."

"I believe we always knew that." Tarthalion's voice was beside them, soft with understanding.

Thranduil murmured his assent, too tired to turn his head to the warrior, determination in his drowsy voice. "When that day comes, I will endure."

Unseen, Tarthalion bowed deeply in respect. "I know you will, my King."

The door flap dropped behind him as he took his leave.

.

It was by chance that he did not meet Mithrildes, who returned fearing the worst. She entered cautiously and almost cried out, momentarily thinking father and son both dead, stretched out as they were, their hair a curtain of pale gold as it flowed over the end of the bed platform. She approached on silent feet with a trembling heart that leaped in relief when she saw there was the curve of a smile on the perfect features of the Elven King and that his arm wrapped protectively around his son as they slept.

Epilogue.

Thranduil stood, forcing himself not to sway, his expression uncharacteristically unsure.

"You look like a King." Legolas reassured him.

His father's eyes glinted with amusement. "That is well, as I am one."

"They await you." Legolas gestured to the doorway. "They are eager to see you are well." He paused, watching in consternation as his father turned to the oak tree beside the bed and reached out to it. "Are you well enough?"

"I am well enough." Thranduil dropped his forehead against the bark of the tree, his lips moving soundlessly in thanks and causing a shiver of pleasure to run through the ancient trunk. He looked up again with a small smile. "I may, however, require some assistance."

Legolas stepped forwards swiftly, taking his father's arm, thinking to help him to the doorway. To his surprise Thranduil did not release him, instead drawing him out into the clearing and allowing some of his weight to settle visibly onto his son in full view of the elves awaiting them.

"May we assist you, Lord King?" Mithrildes regarded him with anxiety.

"My son will assist me," said Thranduil clearly. He stepped forwards carefully and a hearty cheer rang in the gentle evening. A ripple of song started and swelled, sweet and soulful as the King and his son walked slowly through the crowd.

Legolas leaned in, his lips close to his father's ear. "You allow this?"

Thranduil raised an elegant eyebrow. "I allow you to assist me?" He smiled, reaching across to pat his son's hand where it supported him. "I would allow none other."

A warm feeling stole into Legolas's chest. He felt as though at last his feet were securely upon the ground. It was a good feeling, which was odd for someone who loved to run so freely amongst the branches.

The End.

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