A/N: When I started working on this around Christmas (2017), I never thought it would take me this long to start posting. But between work, health issues including surgery and a six-week recovery period, some family drama, but also many delightful events, things took longer than I would have liked.

Now I am back with another father-and-son tale of Thranduil and Legolas (for the most part). Sort of a fix-it for the horrible depiction of their relationship in the three Hobbit movies, which will hopefully also fill some of the plot holes in that movie that have bugged me for YEARS. Readers of my other LOTR stories will find a familiar face or two. Tauriel makes an appearance, but I'll be honest: I am not terribly fond of her.

The timeline starts a few decades before "An unexpected adventure" and goes on to span all three movies.

Please be advised: this is movie-verse with a generous dollop of creative licence. I tried not to butcher the characters. Feel free to disagree with my take on things, but please stay civil. Thank you.

The rating is T on principle – there is some mention of blood, death, and alcohol (we're in Mirkwood, after all). I will include warnings where I feel they might be necessary.

DISCLAIMER: I am neither J. R. R. Tolkien nor Peter Jackson. Make of that what you will. However, I respectfully use their characters and storylines for my writing pleasure, and hopefully to entertain my readers.

\*/*\*/

Chapter 1: What I fear most

It was the one sight he feared most, the one sight he had prayed he would never be forced to see. Only sheer willpower and iron self-control kept him where he stood, rather than doing what his heart screamed at him to do – and what would be rather unwise under the given circumstances.

So he waited for the grief-stricken group of roughly a dozen warriors to cross the bridge to the main gate, his hands, tightly clenched into each other behind his back, the only outward sign of his inner turmoil.

He heard Feren beside him draw a sharp breath as he caught sight of the warriors on the two stretchers at the head of the group. Barely allowing himself a look at the wounded, he almost instantly locked eyes with the head healer who walked between the two stretchers.

"Lord Sadron?" he asked, his voice sounding foreign to his own ears.

"It looks worse than it is, aran-nín," the healer replied evenly, "but we should waste no time in getting them to the infirmary."

With a curt nod, the Elvenking stepped aside, forcing himself not to react to the pained groan that escaped one of the wounded at the slight jostling caused by the stop-and-go motion of his carriers. The rest of the group filed past their lord, gathering under the archway and waiting there in dejected silence as at last the covered stretcher was carried up to the king. With a gentleness that few of his soldiers had ever witnessed in him, Thranduil eased the blanket from the lifeless form to reveal the bloodied face of the slain warrior.

All sound ceased around them save for the rushing of the river and the soft breath of wind in the trees. The king placed a hand on the unmoving chest, closed his eyes and whispered a prayer. Then, covering the body once more, he straightened to his full height and motioned for the group to enter the palace before him. Standing in the open gate, the light of the setting autumn sun painting his tall frame in a crimson halo, he studied the bruised-and-battered members of the guard.

"Have your wounds seen to," he ordered softly after a moment. There was no need to raise his voice. They knew well enough that even his quietest tones carried the most unyielding authority. "Then report to me in one hour."

Without awaiting their acknowledgement, he crossed the entrance hall and strode off toward the healing rooms.

\*/*\*/

Sadron sensed rather than consciously perceived the Elvenking's almost soundless arrival in the room. As he was in the middle of setting a broken leg, he did not look up from what he was doing, knowing the king would stay by the door until invited to approach. The well-being of his people always came first for the ruler, even if it meant putting his own needs aside at great personal cost.

A few moments later, Sadron was finished and, leaving the splinting and bandaging to his assistants, went to speak to the king.

"How are they?" Thranduil asked quietly, his voice even but his eyes ever so slightly tightening in worry.

"Bruised, battered and in pain. Conscious, although I think they'd rather they weren't. Their wounds are serious but they will mend in time," the healer replied, glancing back at the only two occupied beds in the ward.

"What injuries did they sustain?" the king enquired, his eyes following Sadron's gaze.

"Cuts and contusions, mostly. A few broken bones and dislocated joints. Slight concussions, but it seems they got off lucky, considering." The head healer stopped, pressing his lips into a thin line.

A nearly imperceptible nod was all the reaction that Sadron got from Thranduil. "May I speak to them for a moment?"

"Certainly."

So the Elvenking approached the beds where the wounded warriors had just been tucked in by Sadron's assistants.

"Aran-nín!" they greeted him, struggling to assume some semblance of an at-attention posture.

"At ease," he replied quietly but firmly, taking in the pain and the heartbroken look in their eyes. "You suffered a great loss today. I know he was your friend, not merely a fellow warrior." It was a simple statement, but made in a voice that only very few people who knew him had ever heard. Those who had would claim it was the voice reserved only for his son.

"We tried everything we could to save him, sire, but ..." The younger of the two wounded warriors spoke in a frantic rush, but his voice broke and he closed his eyes to prevent the king from seeing his tears.

"Sîdh, young one," Thranduil reassured him, lowering himself on the edge of the bed and laying his hand on the warrior's uninjured shoulder in a compassionate touch. "There is no need to speak of this now. The time to discuss today's events will come soon enough, but for the moment your only task is to rest and allow your injuries to heal. I promise that I will hear each one of you in due course. Until I have, no one will be allowed to pass judgement – and that includes yourself."

The warrior let out a long, shuddering breath and opened his eyes to look at his king. He began to say something, but words failed him again. Thranduil did not seem to mind, though. He gave the shoulder under his fingers another kind squeeze and rose to his feet. "Try to sleep. I will come back later."

Then the king took a few steps to the right and sat down on the edge of the other bed. Without words, hands found each other and held on for dear life.

"My heart weeps to see you so wounded, but it sings to see you alive," the proud Elvenking whispered, leaning forward and placing a tender kiss on the bruised forehead. "My beloved child!"

\*/*\*/

Very reluctantly Thranduil took his leave after a few minutes with his son. Not much had been spoken, at least not in words. Legolas was in considerable pain, and as much as he wished to reassure his anxious father, he found it hard to form words through the pounding in his head and the grinding ache of his broken ribs. Thranduil shushed him several times, telling him they could talk later. But when he moved to stand, Legolas gripped his hands harder, tugging him forward a little. "Saes, ada!" he rasped, pulling one of his father's hands to rest over his heart.

Thranduil understood, closing his eyes and opening his senses to their bond. 'What is it, Legolas?'

'This should not have happened, adar. There was no reason for this to go so terribly wrong. He need not have died.'

The king frowned. 'What do you mean?'

'He rushed headlong into danger when he did not need to.'

The frown was replaced by a sombre expression. 'Do you mean to say he invited death?'

There was a beat of silence before Legolas answered. 'Perhaps not invite ... but he was not as reluctant as he should have been.'

'That is a very serious allegation, Legolas. Are you certain?'

'Not an allegation, adar,' Legolas hurried to reply. 'An observation, rather.'

'Was there a reason for him to act that way?' the king asked, dread and suspicion stirring in his mind.

'Talk to Tauriel, and to Feren.' Deep exhaustion made itself felt on Legolas' part, and immediately his father's love and gentle compassion drowned out all other emotions.

'Sleep now, beloved child. Rest assured that I will take care to heed your advice. You just sleep and heal now. I will return for the night. Sadron is here with you until I do.'

'Hannon le, ada,' the prince replied, squeezing his father's hands as firmly as he could before slipping into sleep.

Thranduil sat for a few moments longer, revelling in the knowledge that his son was safe and on his way to recovery. Then he carefully and reluctantly extricated his hands from his son's, pulled the blankets over his shoulders, and placed another light kiss on the golden head.

As he closed the door to the healing rooms behind himself, however, confusion and worry rushed back. One of his warriors had found (sought and found, even?) death on what should have been a routine patrol. This in itself was troubling enough. But what had Tauriel and Feren to do with anything?