"Great King," started the new master of Laketown, "I heard that your son is no longer with us. Allow me to offer my condolences."

Thranduil had hardly ever stepped into Laketown before. Perhaps once or twice a few years before – and by that, he meant a millennia or two ago – but never more than that. The smell of fish was an ever-present constant and compared to the great halls of Eryn Lasgalen, he considered the conditions of the town to be only a step above squalor. The people seemed to always be dressed in rags and the master of Laketown himself, the one they considered their ruler, was an imbecile and – he turned up his nose at this – smelled of disease and poor hygiene. Certainly, this one was better than his predecessors, but it was only marginally so.

No, Thranduil kept away from Laketown as if it carried the plague – and he was not quite ready to say for certain that it didn't – and if he could, he'd have bypassed this area altogether. However, he had been invited by Daín Ironfoot to Erebor and, though he felt sure that at the end of his visit he would be gifted with precious jewels and gems, Thranduil had no want for them. He would rather have stayed in his woods, minding his people and savouring the serenity that his domain brought him. But, the good relationship between the Elves and the dwarves had to be maintained, and it would not do for him to turn down the invitation of the King Under the Mountain.

That was what his advisors had said upon learning that their king was considering sending a well-penned letter, politely declining the request for his company. Word for word.

And now here he was, stuck at Laketown because the sky had become too dark to continue with their journey, levelling a hard stare in the direction of the human seated before him. "My son is still very much alive. Your condolences are not needed nor are they welcomed," he said, his deep voice echoing through the room and, he was certain, down the hall. From his position outside the door, Galion had turned his eyes to his king, a silent imploration for a small smile or something of the manner to be cast in the direction of the human, if only to placate the man's possibly slighted feelings.

But, of course, Thranduil did not want to conciliate the human. It did not matter to him that the master of Laketown had so generously – that was how Galion had put it – offered them hospitality, a hot meal and a room to stay in. He would much rather spend the night in a tent with little pebbles digging into his back. And anyway, it was his money that ensured the man could continue living in such lavish circumstances, if the look of his home and his clothes could even be deigned to be called that.

Still, he supposed he did not have to be so harsh with the man. Humans were as children, after all, and the master of Laketown would go to bed in tears tonight if he did not say something nice.

"Forgive me, Your Majesty," came the soft voice of the man. Oh, but he sounded almost timid. "I did not realize. I thought that you had lost your son and merely sought to ease your heart. I'm sure that the death of a child is not something so easily forgotten."

Thranduil wanted to drag his hand across his face. Ilúvatar help him, but humans were such tiresome little creatures. He supposed he should say something now. "No, there is no need for apologies. I…am unaccustomed to your ways, I think. But I thank you for your kind thoughts. They are greatly appreciated."

At that, the Laketown ruler looked up at him, daring to meet his eyes. This was not a turn of events that the king had expected. "But – and pardon my asking, Your Majesty – there has been word floating about that your son was with us no longer. And I can see it in your eyes that, to some extent, word of this does upset you."

What could this human have seen in his eyes that the king had been unable to mask? For, of course, he was weary. His life was a long one and much had transpired to tire him. And then Legolas had…he had received that letter. "Let us not speak of this any longer. The only thing that should matter is that my son is alive."

A murmur of "Of course" or some other type of acquiescence from the part of the human signalled the end of this particular conversation, and Thranduil was more than content to spending the rest of the night in silence. He was so very tired.

He had felt the call of the sea for so long a time now, but there was always a reason to stay. At first there was his son, having reached maturity but still so young and inexperienced. He couldn't possibly leave him and even more so when the young elf had no mother to speak of. Then there had been the return of the darkness and the chaos that ensued in the wake of it. The whole of Ardawas in peril and though he cared little for Man, Legolas did – so much so that he had opted to follow Estel into battle when his only task had been to sit in the Council, in his father's place, and deliver a message from Greenwood. Thranduil had received a letter from his son two weeks after the events that would change all their lives transpired and there wasn't so much as an explanation given to him. In fact, the letter contained only two sentences: My King, I have embarked upon a quest with the nine of the Fellowship and seek to destroy the ring. Do not worry.

Do not worry, Legolas? Do not worry? How could the child have asked that of him? Yes, Thranduil had not objected when his son came to him and presented his arguments for joining the patrol and ridding their realm of the spiders, but that was because they were only spiders! Legolas could've shot them in between their eyes in his sleep. But venturing into Mordor and taking on Sauron's army was a different matter altogether, and certainly one that he hadn't consented to. Of course he recognized that the situation was dire and if the Fellowship had needed the aid of the elves, he would've sent someone – he would've sent a hundred someones. But not his son. Not his only son.

The period of Legolas' absence was spent praying to Eru that his son would return to him alive and well every chance that he got. Hours of the night passed with the king looking to the brilliance of the stars hoping that, wherever his son was, the same light that shone upon him here would illuminate a path for the young elf and warn him of any danger. And as he laid in bed or sat upon his throne or even studied a parchment while the advisors of court explained the numbers to him, Thranduil thought that were anything to happen to Legolas, he would march down to Imladris and wring Elrond's neck for allowing his son to undertake such a perilous journey.

When Legolas was little more than a child, Thranduil would pick him up and feather kisses all over his face. He recalled vividly how the thought of biting Legolas' delectable cheeks was so tempting and how, one day in his study, he had given in to temptation and his child had giggled. He often lifted Legolas onto his shoulders so that the elfling would be able to climb atop a tree and learn how to run along its branches. After his mother's passing to Mandos, many a night had been spent cramped into the child's small bed, holding him as he wept and eventually drifted off to sleep, telling him wonderful stories of his mother even as the king himself could not suppress the grief that was tearing at his heart. But then Legolas had grown older and the king had recognized that certain intimacies would have to be forgone. He no longer enfolded his son into his arms, no longer told him how much he was loved, no longer kissed him or ruffled his hair or held his hand. However, he never failed in asking his son how his day had went and if anything of interest had happened. He always made sure that they took breakfast and dinner together and, whenever Legolas was upset about something, he always noticed and he always went out of his way to fix whatever needed fixing, break whatever needed breaking. They existed knowing that all they had was each other. There had been no need to whisper sweet nothings of love, for all that was merely unspoken knowledge.

But then, he had not seen his son in over three hundred years. The life of an elf was an interminably long one and yes, a hundred years was only a blink for them. A hundred years hardly mattered in the long run. Nevertheless, three hundred years was three hundred years. No matter how little three centuries seemed, Thranduil could no more change the meaning that the numbers held than he could make the moon rise in the day and the sun rise in the night. No father should be separated from his own son for three hundred and forty-three years.

Perhaps he had misjudged after all. Perhaps, even when he was older, Legolas needed the surety of hearing his father say how much he loved him, and if that were true, then it was Thranduil's own pride that had driven his son away. Surely he must've driven him away if he could stay in Gondor for over three centuries and never saw his father? Granted, the distance Legolas would have had to travel in order to return to Eryn Lasgalen was great, but that did not render the journey impossible. Had their love for one another so greatly diminished then, that spending over a quarter of a millennia without seeing his father mattered so little to Legolas?

He was tracing the rim of his crystal glass with his index finger, and the only sound in the room was the humming of the glass as he did just so. The master of Laketown was wolfing down whatever was on his plate, of which there was plenty, with the least amount of grace and etiquette that he had ever beheld. Thranduil himself did not touch the food upon his plate. He found that his appetite had vanished.

It was then that he saw one of the guards walking to Galion. Normally, Thranduil would not pay attention to such things. Whatever news the guard brought, it could wait until Galion relayed it to him. But tonight was different. Tonight, there was an haste in the guard's steps and urgency in his face, but not with gravity. No, his demeanor was entirely different, so the king knew for sure that they were not under attack – although whoever would even think to attack Laketown tonight must surely be mad.

Thranduil's ears strained to hear the words being exchanged, and the guard's eyes constantly flitted up to him, as if gaging his reaction, as if considering whether he should approach the king himself and tell him of the news. But he did not. Instead, his voice became louder – not quite loud enough that humans could hear, but certainly more than sufficient for an elf.

All sense of manners dissipated into thin air as Thranduil hurriedly pushed his chair back, the sound of the chair dragging against the floor tearing through the silence that had shrouded the dining room, and when he moved, he moved with remarkable swiftness. Within seconds, he was on the other side of the room, grabbing the guard by his shoulders even as he felt the eyes of the master of Laketown and the maids upon him. His heart was pounding within his chest, beating so hard that Thranduil felt sure at any given moment, it would detach from its muscles and fall eight stories down. He barely heard himself as he said to the guard, "Na van?"

"An-iant."

He felt Galion's hand upon his arm, put there to try to convey to him that he should take a moment, that he shouldn't get his hopes too high. They did not know if any of it was true, after all. Galion, though only an aide, an equivalent of a butler really, had spent much time with the king – more than even his council. He knew how he could be and under any other circumstance, Thranduil would heed his advice, or at the very least consider it. But not pertaining to this. Even if it wasn't true, he could not wait five minutes more for a guard to confirm the information given and the other five minutes it would take for said guard to return. He simply could not. So, although the rich silk of his clothing would undoubtedly be unsalvageable once he'd run across the dirty walkways of Laketown, he could not care and soon enough, Thranduil found himself tearing through the manor, scarcely registering what he was doing or his surroundings, knowing only that he had to run and he had to run fast to the bridge.

If he was at all honest, he would say that he had no idea how long he'd been running. To him, it felt to be hours, although he knew that it couldn't be so. The abode of the master of Laketown was indeed a way's away from the town's mainland entrance, but it would not take him hours to venture there. But every second he had to spend running stretched out over an eternity and Thranduil, who did not abide by the rules of time the same way mortals did, felt for the first time in a very long time – maybe even in all his life – how slow time could crawl.

And then there he was, atop a white horse, his golden hair shining pale under the waning light of the moon. His whole being ached to continue running and reach out, to drag him from on top of the horse and pull him into a crushing embrace, but through no volition of his own, his legs slowed and then they stopped, and Thranduil came to a crushing standstill at the head of the bridge.

Legolas dismounted and approached his father, neglecting the horse behind him, and once he was close enough, he raised his eyes to meet his father's, both the same shade of blue. "Adar, goheno nin."

Thranduil's heart broke at the sound of his voice, so small and so unlike his son's. Eru, what has the world done to him? "Do not apologise, Legolas," he said, his voice soft. He placed a hand on the other elf's shoulder and gently guided him to walk in the direction from which he came. "Come, let us take a walk. I think you have much to tell me."

Of course he knew what Legolas had come here for. Though he had much more care for the humans than Thranduil did, neither would choose to be in Laketown unless truly pressed. He knew very well the reason why his son would come here instead of simply waiting out the following week until his father returned home, and that reason was he.

Walking past the horse now, Thranduil registered the look of his only child. His hair had become paler, his fingers thinner and his eyes, once a brilliant blue of melting glaciers, were reduced to an ashen gray with just enough strings of blue to be recognizable as his son's. Not for the first time that night and only within the space of a few minutes, Thranduil yearned to hold his son – hold him as tightly as he could and for as long as he could.

It was too soon.

"Did you receive my letter, father?" Legolas asked and though he carried himself in a way not unlike the king, with his back ramrod straight, his shoulders back and chin tilted just slightly up, his eyes were downcast. It would seem that neither of them wanted to be having this conversation.

Swallowing, Thranduil realized that his throat was dry. "Yes, I did. And since you are here, I can only assume that you have finished with your preparations."

"We have enough lembas bread to last us another century, father."

He had to smile at that. Legolas was always one to over prepare. And when he looked up to meet his father's eyes – Thranduil was nearly a full head taller than he, a gift from his own father – he couldn't help the smile that crept its way to his face and etched upon his lips. Below them, the wooden bridge was creaking even when only under the barely there weight of two elves, and the sound of water that was still, but not quite, lapping up against the stilts filled their ears. Thranduil's hand was still upon his son's shoulder, and he had unconsciously tightened his grip, as if the strength of his hand alone would be enough to hold Legolas there.

"Legolas –" he had begun to say, only to be interrupted by the elf in question's articulation of, "Father, I –" They were nearing the end of the bridge. Were they to continue walking, they would be in the woods. The idea to continue walking until they reached home was not unappealing. He looked to his son briefly before directing his gaze dead ahead once more, and Thranduil conceded to keeping his silence for now and allow the opportunity for his son to speak what was on his mind, what was troubling them both.

Legolas seemed to understand the silence afforded him, and he rolled his lips back and forth against each other, considering his words carefully and yet, not fully knowing how to say what he needed to say. "Father, you know very well that I have long wanted to set sail for beyond the sea. Even before the War of the Ring, I had felt the call of the sea, but there was Estel to consider. Estel was always my reason for staying. He was more than friend to me, adar, he was as close to me as a brother, and even more so. He was a part of me and I – I loved him so very much." He knew all this of course, Thranduil. Would that he could erase all the hurt from his son's heart. He pulled Legolas closer to him, a small movement, but it was one that both elves felt.

They were almost to the woods when Legolas halted in his tracks, forcing Thranduil to stop with him. And when he looked up at his father, his eyes were so lost that the king could feel an emptiness within even himself. "Estel is gone now, Father. He has been gone for eighty years and I find that I cannot continue here any longer."

Ah, there it was. There were the words that Legolas had alluded to in his letter. He had known of it, of course, but the pain in his chest when he heard the words, as spoken by his son, was still ineffable, and his deep intake of breath was unmistakable. "And what of me?" He had not meant to say it. He did not even know that he'd been thinking it, but there it was.

Another emotion clouded over Legolas' eyes – guilt, grief or perhaps even a mixture of both. Valar, but he had not meant to cause his son so much despair. "Father, I…I don't know what to say. I don't know how to answer that. I just…I can't…"

He was visibly struggling for words now and Thranduil, though he felt like crawling into his bed and never again waking up for all the world, abided by his fatherly instincts and turned towards his son, clasping both his shoulders this time and his voice when he spoke was achingly soft. It was the same voice that he had used all those years ago when explaining to his little elfling that his mother had gone. "Then say nothing." The hand on Legolas' shoulder went to his back, and the king put gentle pressure on it, making it evident that he wanted them to continue forward.

Briefly, he thought about how much better it would be for the both of them if Legolas had simply left, if he had simply written a letter and then left. Only, it wouldn't be, would it? He was lying to himself now because everything was still so new and painful. He would not be glad if Legolas had left without seeing him. In fact, he would be crushed. But having him here, so close and so warm under his touch, even through the material of his cloak and clothing, did little to ease the pain. It was simply a vivid and tangible reminder that he would not be here for long and that, after tonight, he will no longer be able to hold his pen-neth.

How he wished that he had not spent so many years being stoic. How he wished he had spent more time with his son. How he wished he had told him more and more how loved he was, how much his father loved him. It was funny how regret came back to kick you in the stomach and leave you winded.

"Father, I came to see you because I wanted to explain. I needed to explain it to you." Legolas' tone was pleading, as if begging his father to listen, to understand.

But that was exactly what hurt the most – the fact that Thranduil, the king of the Silvan elves, the greatest king they had ever known, could not even claim anger or confusion or betrayal at his son's choice. Because he did understand. Yet, even understanding could not dull the sharp twisting of his heart. Thranduil had not lied when he said to the master of Laketown that his son was very much alive and even after he'd set sail, he would still remain so until he chose not to. Condolences were not needed. But having his son leave for Valinor when he knew full well that he would not be doing so any time soon was the equivalent of having lost him.

And no parent should have to outlive his child.

But asking Legolas to stay was not fair to him. Thranduil was all too familiar with the effects of a broken heart, and the loss of a loved one brought with it the most potent of heartbreaks. After his father had fallen in the Last Alliance, the newly crowned king had felt sure that he would fade, that he could not tolerate another loss. And then he'd lost his wife. He remembered all too well the searing pain that had wracked his being for well over five hundred years, a pain that was still a dull throbbing in his heart every morning that he woke and realized that she was no longer beside him. But he had not faded. He had not faded because he had a little son who needed him, who required him to shower him with enough love for both of them. And so he had lived and he had raised the wonderful elf that stood before him.

No, it was not fair to ask Legolas to stay, and though Thranduil had many faults, being unjust was not one of them. He was not about to start by being unjust to his own son.

Under the shade of the trees, Thranduil stopped, his eyes fixed on something above him. "Look, Legolas. Do you see those four stars? The ones arranged in the shape of a cross." He lifted his hand and pointed in its direction. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see the other elf nodding. "The humans call it the southern cross, or crux. It is the only constellation in the night sky that is always present, the only one that you can always see no matter the time of the year." His hand fell back to his side then and, though he wasn't certain that he could look at his son without shedding tears, King Thranduil turn to look at his only child, pushing a stray lock of his hair behind his shoulder. "If you were ever lost, all you would need to do was look for the cross and you would always be able to find your way home.

Life has cut you adrift, ionneg. Your heart is broken. And much as I wish to say that I could make the pain go away, I cannot. So I will say nothing about your departure for Valinor, will not try to stop you or beg you to stay because watching you live the remainder of our endless lives in sorrow and devastation is a hundred times worse than losing you." Legolas needed to know that there was no guilt to be felt for following his heart and answering the call of the sea. But even as he said it, his heart was breaking and this time, it was a pain that he knew would last until he would join his son in the everlasting land.

"You are lost, my child, and you need to go home." And having said that, having finally given Legolas his blessing to leave and admitting to himself that it was happening, that this was farewell, Thranduil did what he'd been wanting to do all night.

He pulled his son into his arms, holding onto him as if he was his only lifeline. He had to make this one count. All the words that he should have said when Legolas was still young, all the hugs that he should have given, all the love that he should not have hidden – he poured it all into that one embrace. And he felt Legolas' arms around him as well, clutching him tightly the way he used to when he was a child. One of his hands stroked his son's hair. He wanted to remember everything about him, wanted to memorize everything that was his Dian Las, his Little Leaf. Thranduil Oropherion would have no regrets for tonight.

"Gi melin, pen-neth."

"Gi melin, ada."

Thranduil had once thought that he could not survive losing yet another loved one, but as he held his son, he knew it was not true. Although he, too, felt the call of the sea and wanted nothing more than to set sail with his son – even if he insisted on bringing along the dwarf – he could not. His people still needed him. They were not quite ready to let him go. So he would stay, for however long it took until the call to set for Valinor was too strong to be unanswered, and he would not fade.

So much more for him that he was strong.

He pulled away from his son then, and planted a kiss on the crown of his head. And for the first time in over two thousand years, King Thranduil of the Wood of Greenleaves, formerly Greenwood The Great, felt a tear slide down his cheek. And then there were more tears as he held his son once more, saying goodbye without having to speak a word.

"Novaer, pen-neth," he whispered against his son's hair. "Guren níniatha nì lû nì a-govenitham."

Farewell, my little one. My heart shall weep until I see you again.

Elven translation:

Ilúvatar - Sindarin for Eru, the creator.

Na van? - Where?

An-aint - By the bridge.

Adar, goheno nin. - Father, forgive me.

pen-neth - little one/young one

ionneg - my son

Gi mellin, pen-neth. - I love you, little one.

Gi mellin, ada. - I love you, Daddy.

Novaer, pen-neth. Guren níniatha nì lû nì a-govenitham. - Farewell, little one. My heart shall weep until I see you again.

Really, this needed to be written. It was just something that was nagging at me for so long. As always, R&R, and if you're reading this, I love you.