I don't own, which should be really obvious.
I do not send him to Rivendell.
It is true that somebody needs to tell of the escape of the prisoner, but I do not send Legolas. Why would I? He was miles away, on patrol. And I do not want him to leave.
But he volunteers. Says it is an important job.
He hugs me the morning he leaves, and promises he will return. I hold him tight and try to believe him.
Legolas has volunteered for something else, it seems. The messenger looks up at me, as though terrified of what I will say.
"Dismissed," I tell him. "Rest and then return to Imladris."
I hold myself back until later that night, when I am alone. Then I can't stop myself, and the tears fall freely.
Legolas, my beautiful son, my heart, all that is left of my family. What have you done? What have you agreed to do? Do you not remember what happened the last time we waged war on Mordor?
My realm is littered with graves. I have buried my father, my wife, so many of my people.
Please, Eru Ilúvatar, do not make me bury my son.
Within a month Mirkwood is at war, and I no longer have time to miss him every hour.
But in the rooms we share at night—and they feel far too large, and far too empty, now that he is gone—I have all the time in the world. And I miss him so.
The war rages on. No news comes to me of my Legolas. I reassure myself that he is at least alive.
He is alive: we share our flesh and blood; were he not alive, I would know it.
(Wouldn't I?)
The Ring is destroyed. The war is over. Legolas will return.
And he does not return. Not for another six months, and though six months is a blink in the life of an Elf these particular six months seem to drag on for centuries.
He is alive, though. I would know. I would.
"My king?" The messenger startles me out of reverie. "My king, Prince Legolas has returned."
At first I am not quite sure what has been said, but the significance hits quickly.
He is home.
Legolas is hale and whole and home.