*hides face* This is terrible, but after BOFTA my emotions were all over the place and this just demanded to be written. All dialogue in the first scene belongs to PJ and other makers of the film.. I'm sorry for spelling mistake and general awful-ness
Thranduil walks among the bodies of his people, and tries not to look for his son.
He has not seen Legolas in many hours, since his son had furiously run off with Tauriel, and although he is trying not to be overly concerned, it is difficult. Fighting in such an intense battle had brought back memories, and Thranduil can already feel the darkness whispering at the edges of his mind with images of blood and dragon fire.
Climbing up the rough stone steps, he keeps his eyes fixed on his feet, blocking out the red-stained snow and the hollow faces of the dead. He's so distracted that seeing Legolas round the corner startles him.
His son is evidently surprised as well. He pulls up short, his lips half parted as if he is preparing to speak, but has thought better of it. Thranduil studies him. Legolas looks battle weary like the others. His hair is wild from the wind, his tunic wet with blood, but after a quick inspection, Thranduil notes with relief that it is not his own. Legolas stares back at him with eyes that are hard and angry and hurting, and Thranduil feels the sudden desire to pull his son close. There has been a cold distance between them the past few decades, as is to be expected with a young elf.
But Legolas quickly brushes past him, preferring to speak his words to the cold open air. "I cannot stay here."
Thranduil has been expecting this, especially after Tauriel's actions, but the words still sting. He swallows and says, quietly, "where will you go?"
Legolas shakes his head, like an exasperated, head strong horse, his fingers curling into fists as he presses one against the stone. "I do not know." His tone is not angry, but despairing. Thranduil's careful eyes can see that his son is shaking. The battle has exhausted both his body and mind, and the elfling is at his breaking point. There are many things that are on the edge of Thranduil's tongue-cautions and condolences, advice...words that would help guide his son home, back to Mirkwood's halls. But he knows that Legolas must find it in himself to return home in his own time.
"Go North," he says eventually. "Find the Dunedain." A half smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. Yes, he can picture Legolas easily there-leaping through the trees with some of the proudest beings in the race of Men. "There is a ranger there you should meet."
Legolas's shoulders straighten a little. "What is his name?"
Thranduil smiles again, thinking of Elrond's young foster son, who had his father's reckless pride and his mother's gentle spirit. "He's known as Strider," he says, and he knows that Legolas can hear the mirth in his voice, for his son turns, giving him a curious look, "his true name is something you must discover for yourself."
Legolas nods again, less curtly this time, but still clearly a dismissal. He turns away.
Thranduil looks at his son, all careful movements, injured pride, battle worn, and despairing. Still, there is a strength in his shoulders, the proud tilt of his chin. Thranduil cannot bear it. "Legolas," he calls, "your mother loved you very much." his voice trembles, and he sees Legolas freeze at that, his entire profile rigid against the white skyline. "She loved you more than life," Thranduil continues softly, and he knows that Legolas understands when he half turns, his features contorted, eyes wet, hand outstretched.
Thranduil presses a hand to his heart and extends it to his son, the gesture clear, you are my heart.
Legolas swallows visibly, and returns the gesture, leaving his fingers outstretched for half a second, before curling his hand into a fist and bounding off into the snow.
Thranduil watches him go, and leans against the cold stone.
Pressing a trembling, still blood-stained hand to his eyes, he allows his control to falter for half a second. The proud elf king bends slightly, and cries for the spilled blood of his people, his son's anguish, and the bittersweet sting of love.
Legolas runs.
He pushes past grieving fathers and mothers and children, dodges passing carts carrying the screaming wounded. He catches glimpses of their faces-the dead and the dying-all twisted and bloodstained and vacant. It turns his stomach, and he feels the hot bile burn the back of his throat as he jumps over another pile of the dead.
He has seen battle before, he is not a child. But those fights were not on this scale, they were against spiders, the occasional goblin or orc. He was to young to truly remember his mother's death. This destruction and terror is seared into his memory forever-the sound of children screaming...
They were so young. The men here, he can see the freshness of their youth in their eyes. Barely more than twenty, most of them. Children. All of them.
And they are dead.
Legolas blinks furiously, struggling to clear his vision. Skidding to a stop, he leans against a pile of fallen debris, fighting for breath. Tipping his head back, he focus on the sound of his breathing, the heaving of his lungs, the ache in his ribs. He focus on sending breath throughout his whole body, breathing into his feet. It is a technique Tauriel taught him many years ago.
Tauriel.
Legolas winces at her name. His best friend. She is proud and strong and beautiful, the one he would choose to have at his side during any fight.
She is gone.
Shaking his head, he pushes thoughts of Tauriel from his mind, and goes to find his horse.
The beast has been lingering with the other horses. They huddle in a loose circle along the outskirts of Dale. As Legolas's approaches, a stallion screams, charging out from the herd with ears back in warning.
"Peace, peace," the elf soothes, quickly turning his back and lowering his shoulders and head, signaling that he is not a threat. "You are safe now."
Behind him, the horse slows, the soft, heat of his breath tickles Legolas's palm as the stallion slowly extends his neck, sniffing.
The elf smiles. "You're safe, mellon nin," he whispers, turning slowly to face the stallion, palms out. The horse is a young-with ears that are slightly to large and long, thin legs. His confirmation is a bit awkward, but Legolas sees strength in the ripple of his shoulder muscles and hindquarters. This is a proud creature.
Acknowledging the horse with a nod, he asks, "Can I borrow my horse for awhile?"
The stallion snorts.
Smiling, Legolas whistles, "Tolo!" he sings out, the command clear and familiar.
The white horse towards the back of the herd raises her head, ears pricking at the familiar elvish command. Tossing back her mane, she trots smoothly towards him, stretching out her neck to butt her head against his chest. Legolas combs his fingers through her forelock, and leans against her for the space of a few seconds, breathing in her scent. "Are you ready to run?" he whispers.
Without waiting for an answer he steps to her side and swings up onto her back. His body is sore and aching, and he hisses a little at the movement. She dances sideways, tossing her head up in the air. Reaching down, he strokes her neck. "Shall we?"
At a gentle word from him and a touch of his heels, they run.
It had been many years since Legolas travelled alone.
He's missed the wild recklessness of it, the feeling of the wind in his hair, the lone sound of his horse's hooves and their joined breathing. He's missed listening to the quiet song of the trees under an open sky, the song that came with silence, the gentle kiss of the wind, the melody of the stars.
Out in the wilds, he is no longer the Prince of Mirkwood. He is simply Legolas, and that fact makes him both raw and proud.
Sometimes he thinks of Tauriel, and wonders where she is. He hopes she is somewhere where she is able to see the stars, where she is able to help people. He hopes she is somewhere where she can learn to be happy again.
She deserves that.
He finds the Dunedain a few weeks later.
His horse is walking, slowly now. They are both exhausted, and Legolas finds himself drifting off on her back. She shifts his weight so he does not fall, and he presses his forehead to her mane. "Hannon le," he whispers.
A rustle in the trees is all Legolas has time to register before a figure clad in a grey cloak drops to the ground in front of him.
His horse snorts and rears back, pinning her ears and lashing out with her front hooves. Legolas curls his fingers into her mane and strokes her neck. "Steady," he says, making the command half song, crooning, "steady, steady."
The man in front of him is immobile. Legolas can not make out his features, hidden as they are by the cowl of his cloak. "Why do you come to these lands, elf?"
Legolas lifts his chin. "I am Legolas, son of Thranduil, of Mirkwood. I have come to seek shelter and company. I am looking for the man known as Strider."
The stranger straightens, throwing back his hood. "Welcome, Legolas, son of Thranduil." A playful smile flicks across his face. "I am the man you seek."
But Legolas is staring, because even though he is older, even though there is a hint of stubble along his jawline, even though he's wearing ragged clothes, Legolas is certain he's seen this man before, a very long time ago.
Strider takes a step towards him. "Shall I take your horse?" He walks up to the mare's side, extending a hand. She shifts slightly, but not away from him. Legolas absently soothes her with a gentle hand. "Thank you, but I can care for her on my-" the words die in his throat as Strider tilts his head up into the light, meeting Legolas's gaze.
His eyes are a familiar silver, with the hint of a mischievous spark that Legolas remembers seeing once in a very small child a few decades past on a visit to Rivendell. "Estel?" the elf breathes.
The man jerks back at the name, eyes widening. Perhaps unconsciously, his hand goes to the dagger at his waist. "How do you know that name?" His voice is as taunt as bowstring, low and rough with tension.
Legolas holds up his hands. "Peace," he says, softly. "I've travelled through Rivendell many times," switching from Common to Sindarian, he asks, "do you not recognize me, Estel, foster son of Elrond half elven?"
Strider blinks. His face is pale now, a fine sheen of sweat beads at his temples. Taking a step back, he shakes his head, slowly. "I-"
"My name is Legolas," Legolas repeats slowly, hands still raised in a gesture of peace, "I am the son of Thranduil, king of Mirkwood. I act as my father's ambassador, and have visited Elrond, your father-"
"He is not my father," the harsh whisper seems automatic, and Strider's cheeks flush slightly as he says the words, as though embarrassed or angered by them.
Legolas sighs. "Your foster father then. I am not surprised that you do not recognize me, you were only a small child the last time we met."
The Ranger nods slowly. "I believe you," he says in perfect Elvish. "What brings you to the North?"
Cautiously, Legolas slips off his horse, so he and the human are level. "I need to escape," he says with complete honesty.
Estel, and Legolas truly cannot stop thinking of him as Estel, not after he's seen those eyes, smiles and claps him on the shoulder. It is a very human gesture; Strider has spent at least a few years among the race of men. "Our needs are the same, mellon nin. Please, if you are a friend of Elrond as you say, and if we have indeed met before, you are most welcome among the Dunedain."
Legolas stays with Strider for several seasons.
Slowly, he begins to see that although he is older and may have started to grow a beard, Estel is still very much a child. At times Legolas feels immeasurably old, explaining the terror of battle to a man who has yet to experience one, waking screaming from nightmares to Strider's hand on his shoulder and Estel's silver eyes peering at him with frightened concern in the dark.
But there is joy, and healing to be found among the men. They travel through the forest with care, not quite as silent as elves, but not nearly as clumsy as dwarves. They sleep under the stars and they are quick to laughter and merriment. Legolas grows quite fond of them.
In Strider, he finds a companion and confidant. Knowing that Legolas is a person from his past, Strider often slips into Elvish in the elf's present, and the other Rangers send the two out on scouting missions together.
Crouched down among the leaves, Legolas smirks at his human companion. "Raise your elbow," he says, adjusting Strider's bow arm. "Honestly, your brothers would be ashamed if they saw you now."
Strider eyes him darkly. "Who caught our meal last night?"
"You," Legolas says honestly. "Still. Fix your position, Estel."
Scowling, the human adjusts his arm, the muscles of his shoulder bunching under Legolas's hand. The elf holds his breath as his friend lets the arrow fly, and winces when it meets it's target-a young buck a stone's throw away.
They work in silence, carrying the beast back to camp, stripping the fur, preparing it so it can be consumed without bringing sickness to the others.
Abruptly, Strider lays down his knife and asks in Sindarian, "do you know why I ran away?"
Legolas looks up at him.
The man is tense, his brow furrowed, eyes fixed firmly on his bloodied hands. The elf lays down his own knife and says, "No."
"You're not curious?"
"My father told me I'd find you here," Legolas shrugs. "And once I knew you were Estel, it did not seem polite to ask."
"I am not Estel," Strider's voice is a harsh, trembling whisper. His hands are shaking. He curls them into fists. "I have never been Estel." He looks up suddenly, silver eyes wild. "Do you know who my father is?"
Legolas shakes his head. "Elrond never told me."
Exhaling in a sudden gust, Strider presses his clenched fists to his eyes, rocking back on his heels. In the flickering light of the fire, the shadows across his face are long and oddly cast. Legolas can see the curve of his cheek, the wild tangle of his hair, but not his eyes. "My father," he chokes out, "was Arathorn."
Legolas rocks back. "King of Gondor?"
Swallowing hard, Strider nods.
Gently, Legolas crosses the distance between them. Not touching his friend, simply sitting beside him. Strider is tense next to him, all humming nerves and raw emotion.
The man answers the elf's unspoken question. "My true name," he whispers into his fingers, "is Aragorn."
Legolas nods. "And that is why you ran?"
Strider sighs bitterly, brushing away his tears with a quick, furious flick of his fingers. Facing Legolas, he looks wild and lost. "I don't know who I'm supposed to be, Legolas."
Smiling, the elf presses a hand to the man's shoulder. "Oh, my young friend," he laughs softly, "No one really knows who they are supposed to be. The real question is, who do you want to be?"
Legolas does not return to his father's halls for many years.
He travels the wilds with Strider for a few years. The man has become his friend, and the child Legolas had once known has grown to a fierce warrior and gentle Ranger. It has been many years since Legolas has been able to laugh so freely. In the North, he is not a prince, and is no longer burdened with responsibilities. He can sing to the trees and the stars and run through the forests with his friend by his side for hours.
That is not to say that he does not miss the forests of his home, but it is a relief to be free from the spreading darkness that is eating away at the Greenwood. Out under the open skies, in the fresh mountain air, Legolas's soul can sing.
Still, he knows that he must return eventually.
Strider knows it too, and when Legolas turns to him one day in late spring, the elf does not have to say anything.
Aragorn (for he is becoming more and more comfortable with his given name, thought to Legolas he will always be Estel) smiles sadly and grips the elf's shoulder. "I'll miss you, Legolas."
The elf smiles. "I'm sure we will meet again, Estel. The world is to wild and far to dangerous to keep us apart for long."
Aragorn interlaces his fingers, helping Legolas up onto his horse. "Give your people my regards, and if you happen to see my brothers or Lord Elrond-" the words catch in his throat.
Smiling gently, Legolas nods. "I'll tell them you are well," he promises.
The man nods gratefully. "Hannon le, mellon nin."
Legolas presses a hand to his heart and extends it to his friend. "Until we meet again."
Strider flicks up his cowl and smiles with just the corner of his mouth. "Don't get into too much trouble, elf," he calls over his shoulder, and turns away.
Shaking his head, Legolas grins and touches his heels lightly to his mare's side. "Run home," he whispers in her ear.
Thranduil is waiting for him at the outskirts of the forest.
It is such a rare sight-seeing his father out of his halls and so close to the edge of their borders. Legolas's breath catches in his chest and he urges his horse faster, worried that something is wrong.
His father raises a hand in greeting as Legolas approaches, and calls out, "Welcome home, Legolas!" There is warmth in his voice that Legolas is not used to hearing, and he simply smiles in response.
Thranduil catches his mare with gentle hands, stroking her neck as she skids to an ungraceful halt in front of him. "How are you?" he asks, tilting his head up to meet Legolas's eyes.
Legolas sighs, feeling the familiar song of Mirkwood, the linger darkness at the edges of his mind, the hollow melody of a forest in ruin. His soul is heavier here, but he also feels more whole, more sure of himself. Here, he has a duty and a purpose. This is where he belongs.
"I am well," he answers honestly, swinging down from his horse to greet his king and his father. "I am...more aware of myself than last we spoke."
The elf king tilts his head to side, which Legolas knowns is his equivalent of a smile. "I am glad," his hand is heavy and gentle on his son's shoulder. "Come," he says, and together, they step into the shadow of the forest.