Just a quickie one-shot that has been floating around in my head ever since I watched teh Extended Edition of TH:BOTFA. FTTBL will be updated shortly. Curious Case, not so much. Let me know what you think, drop a review!
Enjoy!
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The stench of blood and orc filled the air in a tangled mess, the screams of the dying and the wounded a background noise that once pierced his ears and sounded over the screech of metal upon metal and flesh, as blood and dust mixed, and the streams ran red. Whatever had happened up on Ravenhill had ended the battle, but not before many of his subjects, his kin, had fallen to the accursed blades of orcs, goblins, or even Dwarves. As he wandered the ruined city of Dale, drifting aimlessly out onto the battlefield and towards the place where he'd last caught a glimpse of his son, his ever-moving mind connected names to faces, embellishments on armour, or even weapons.
Here was Erlan, a deep gash spreading from shoulder to hip, who was in Tauriel's squad. He often sang at the many festivals at the urgings of his friends with a soaring tenor. Tarathion and Eleniel were a brother and sister from the Eastern Border patrol, whose exhibitions of acrobatics mixed with swordplay never failed to impress. Arander would often spar with Legolas; his knife work was exceptional, and he was always a challenge to beat. Thalion was as talented with a harp as he was with a bow, and Nithron left behind three younger sisters, two of which were on the Northern Patrol, while Erynion had a rich baritone that often twined with Erlan's tenor, and Morwen (who lay next to a child barely of age to be fighting, body lain protectively over his, but his sightless eyes reflected the grey sky) would sing with a lovely soprano.
To his left, Dain of the Iron Hills was sifting through a pile of orc carcasses, looking for survivors. He looked up, and the gazes of the two Kings clashed, before Dain spoke.
"If ye lookin' for ya lad, he was a' Ravenhill last I saw."
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His stomach plummeted, even as he nodded his thanks. The blood of Elves and Dwarves had spilt and mingled too much for there to be any petty rivalries between races during this time. Lifting his gaze to scan the rocky cliffs, his keen eyes recognized the shade of auburn that belonged to his Captain, and his insides twisted further.
"You have no love in you!"
Her words echoed throughout his head, and shards dug deeper into his chest. Her words had hurt him more than she could have imagined, yet his own retort afterwards had disgusted him to his core. Words said in anger to an elleth that he considered a daughter. Words designed to stab and sever; deliberately wound and scar.
Yet still, he hadn't seen the familiar shade of blonde identical to his own, nor had he spotted the flash of mithril that adorned his son's knives; a coming of age gift from himself. With a determined set of his shoulders, he headed towards Ravenhill, his heart growing heavier than his crown with every step.
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Within the blood splattered corridor, he examined the bodies and various parts of where they lay on the floor. The knife work was recognizable as Tauriel's; his son's was slightly more chaotic in terms of placement, and Tauriel always aimed for the throat. The chunks taken out of the walls were made by the blunt, ungainly swords and clubs wielded by orcs, not the shining metal of Orchrist. Still, he flickered glances down each corridor that he passed, searching for the elusive blonde shade and enemies simultaneously.
Hearing footsteps, his head shot up from his examination of the orc bodies, his gaze landing on his battered and bruised, yet alive, son. Legolas looked surprised to see him; he stopped dead as soon as he saw his father. Thranduil, however, ran his eyes up and down his son's body, searching for any wounds that were severe, any blood that coated his armour, anything that indicated that his son was grievously hurt. Legolas avoided his eyes, and Thranduil could tell that the younger elf was conflicted about something.
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"I…cannot go back."
The words fell into the silence like an arrow falls from the sky, the air thick with tension between the Prince and the King.
"You do not control my heart."
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'Why? You will be forgiven, and we can put all of this mess behind us.' The father in Thranduil's head screamed. But the King overruled the father once more, seeing that the Prince needed space and time.
"Where will you go?" he asked, as his son moved past him, their shoulders brushing slightly in the tight confines of the passageway. His mind tossed through all possible destinations that Legolas could go. Elves were not fond of overly crowded places, and Legolas hated both cities and stone, so the kingdom of Gondor was out. Rohan was in the middle of a civil war, and Lothlorien was too close to Mirkwood, while orcs roamed the Misty Mountains.
"I do not know." His son admitted, turning to face his father. His quiver was empty, Thranduil noted, and he looked to be missing a knife, while Orchrist was nowhere to be seen.
"Go north,' he finally suggested, an idea springing forward into his mind, 'find the Dúnedain. There's a young Ranger amongst them. You should meet him."
Legolas narrowed his eyes and frowned, and Thranduil noticed with dismay that he could no longer read his son's expressions as easily as before. He pushed on regardless, hoping that his son would take his advice to heart.
"His father, Arathorn, was a good man."
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Grey eyes filled with laughter as he pushed the Elven King, ignoring the social norm for behaviour in regard to the King.
A whispered 'make sure they get to Rivendell', before a charge back into battle at his side, straight into a pack of orcs attacking a village.
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"His son,' he continued, 'might grow to be a great one."
To his relief, Legolas nodded, contemplating something.
"What is his name?"
"He is known in the wild as Strider." He briefly considered telling Legolas the truth, and then decided against just as quick.
"His true name,' he fixed Legolas with a challenging stare,' you must discover for yourself."
He was rewarded with a slight quirk of the lips from Legolas, which meant that he had guessed exactly what his father was doing. Thranduil knew that Legolas was curious, and would now go, if not only to find out the true name of Strider. Legolas turned to leave and he watched his son go, feeling…proud of the elf that his son had grown up into. Almost against his will, he called out to his son, determined to impart this knowledge to his eldest son.
"Legolas."
Legolas stopped, and his head turned the barest amount in his direction to indicate that he was listening, although he did not turn around. Thranduil swallowed.
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"Your mother loved you."
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Blue-violet eyes, much like his son's, gazed in complete adoration at the tiny babe she cradled in her arms.
The same woman rocking Legolas to sleep, before looking at him with eyes brimming warmth.
Legolas nestled in between the two of them as she spoke of myths and legends, of lands far from Mirkwood.
A gentle hand wiping away tears, and soothing a scraped knee of a small elfling.
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"More than anyone."
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Thranduil could always find her in three places; the nursery, the gardens or their rooms. Her world revolved totally around their son, and he wouldn't have it any other way.
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"More than life."
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An ambush, and the screams of a child mixing with the clang of metal and crunching of flesh, the hiss of arrows as they flew through the air. He spotted her, battling off a swarm of orcs, protecting her son to the last, even as they stabbed her through the stomach as she threw herself in front of Legolas. As they dragged her off, himself following, hell-bent on saving her, she caught his gaze.
"Save Legolas! Leave me!"
He'd obeyed, but he'd never seen his wife again.
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Legolas turned then, his hand sweeping outwards in a gesture of respect; a Prince to his King, and Thranduil returned it. If he noticed that his son's hand lingered longer than was necessary, as if he were reaching out for comfort like he used to as an elfling, he didn't comment. His own fist rose to rest on his chest, acknowledging the gesture, but it stayed there. He watched his son go, eyes staying on his form until he turned a corner and vanished from his sight, before he bowed his head and closed his eyes, telling himself that there was a piece of grit that caused his eyes to water and no other reason. His mind, however, supplied him with the words he never had the nerve to speak aloud.
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'I love you, Legolas. More than anything. More than life."
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It wouldn't be until his son had returned from his quest to destroy the One Ring that Thranduil found the courage to say those words to his son, every fibre of his being thankful that his son had returned home to him safely.
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Cool. May expand on this later, but it's really up to you, the reader...If you want more, let me know; drop a review or a PM (Review anyway) and tell me your thoughts!
Cheers,
Siofra