Though the sun was shaded, the day was not especially bleak. Mirkwood was still peacefully subdued, without so much as a rustle of the leaves, though the clouds held the promise of rain, as it had the evening before. A mist had settled over the world, and even with the eyes of an Elf, Legolas couldn't see much past the first few trees in front of him. Even though the visibility was less than pristine, the Elf quite enjoyed this type of weather, when the dew settled and sparkled on the flora of his beautiful green wood.

The young prince smiled, breathing in the cool, fresh air. Last night's rain had cleansed the land of the oppressive heat, which Legolas was glad for. Mirkwood could be sticky and uncomfortable in the summer, and Legolas much preferred the springtime breezes. He was pleased that the heat had been repressed and that his long, slivery-blonde hair was no longer perpetually stuck to the back of his neck.

It had been almost ten years since he had returned home from his long journey with the Fellowship, though it felt like the blink of an eye. Years passed like water down a swiftly flowing river for Elves, and he was much the same as he had been a decade earlier, though his friends had grown older. Samwise had gone from hardly a man to a middle-aged farmer, caring for his children and his wife. Merry and Pippin, too, had grown up far too quickly. Gimli's long beard was thinning, and the reddish curls on his head receded more and more every time Legolas saw him. Aragorn was perhaps the most changed, however. His once dark, shining hair was dull and graying. His face was lined with the struggles and stresses of being the King of the greatest kingdom of Men. He often seemed tired and exasperated, and it pained Legolas to see him in such a state. Even so, the man had seemed in high spirits when he had come to visit with the rest of the remaining members of the Fellowship, and was happy to announce that he was the father of a son, the next heir to the throne.

Legolas smiled thinking about his friends, particularly Aragorn. He had been very close to the man on their journey, and they both found great comfort in each other during the most trying times. Legolas still considered Aragorn his very closest friend, even though he had met so many in his long years in Middle-Earth. He decided he would write to the man as soon as he returned to the palace, just to say hello, and to wish his son, Estel, a happy birthday, for he was just shy of his tenth year.

As the prince sat in one of the many platforms among the trees, he smiled, remembering when Aragorn himself was called Estel. Legolas had known him then, when he was small, and felt almost like a proud father, watching the boy grow into a man; into a king. He had taught Aragorn the ways of the forest: how to track, the best way to build a fire, how to hunt, and how to ride a horse, but perhaps the greatest gift Legolas had given him was the art of archery. Though Legolas was skilled in many areas, he was legendary with a bow, even among his own people. He remembered vividly how frustrated little Aragorn had been when he couldn't seem to find his mark, as well as how pleased he was when he hit his first bulls-eye. He remembered embracing the little boy after his triumph, so proud that his student had succeeded. It was strange to think about how Aragorn had changed so significantly in the past ninety years, when Legolas had stayed the same, forever still in time: ever youthful, never aging. He remembered when he and Aragorn appeared the same age. When Aragorn was in his twenties and thirties, he could have convinced anyone he was elfkind, with his fair features and mannerisms. Not ten years after his thirtieth year, though, there was no mistaking that he was a Man. He had aged. His face was no longer smooth and carefree; it was creased with age and worry, like a wrinkled map that had seen one too many adventures. His eyes weren't as bright, and had continued to fade as the years passed.

It pained the Elf to watch his greatest companion withering slowly with age, but he knew that everything faded in time, and that Aragorn was no different. He had watched many friends fade and wither throughout the ages, whether they were men or Elves stricken with grief over the loss of a wife or child. They all faded away, and he could not linger on the thought.

—o0o—

When Legolas returned to the palace, he was surprised to see his father sitting in the foyer with a messenger. Rarely were messages so important that the King was called from his duties, and this planted a seed of worry in the prince. He glided to his father's side, placing a hand on his shoulder.

"Atar—" he stopped as his father turned to face him, the prince's light eyes widening when he saw the tears glittering on his father's eyelashes.

"Atar what's happened?" Legolas asked, concerned. It took quite a blow to cause an Elf to weep openly, especially Thranduil. Legolas had always known his father to be strong and stern, rarely showing emotion publicly, yet here he sat, tears in his deep blue eyes.

"You are dismissed…" Thranduil said quietly to the messenger, a young Elf with bright, downcast eyes, only a child.

"Yes, your Highness…" he cooed quietly, walking swiftly from the parlor, leaving the King alone with his only son.

"Sit." He said dully to Legolas, guiding his son down onto one of the many chairs by his thin shoulder.

"Atar what's going on? What has upset you so?" he asked, sitting at the very edge of the seat, worry evident in his porcelain face.

"Ill news from the White City." Thranduil replied, brushing the tears away from his eyes before they could escape down his cheeks. Legolas' mind immediately flashed to Minas Tirith: to Arwen, to Estel, to Aragorn.

"What has happened? Is Aragorn alright?"

"I'm afraid not…He has been killed…" Legolas' heart felt strangled, choked in his chest, as if he had been stabbed. He felt the sting behind his bright blue eyes, the burn in his throat, promising tears.

"What…How?" he asked, sitting back in his chair, utterly defeated. He felt as if he might be sick, a sensation he had not felt since he was much younger, after his mother's passing.

"It seems that history is repeating itself, Legolas. Arwen was not spared either."

"What of Estel?" Legolas asked, letting tears flood down his face, turning his pale cheeks a raw red.

"He has been badly wounded, but he is alive…that was what the message was concerning…Aragorn's final wish was that he be sent to stay with you." Thranduil smiled slightly, sadly, and wiped away his son's tears with his thumb. "Do not weep. This is a joyous occasion. There is going to be a child living in our Forest, another life to love and care for."

"I-I cannot…I could not care for the child…I am not fit to be a father—"

"Hush." Thranduil said with another smile. "You will be a wonderful father, iôn nín, and I will always be here to help." He said, taking his son's hand and standing, embracing Legolas, kissing his forehead the way he had since the prince was small.

"When will he be here?" Legolas asked, looking up at his father, for he was nearly a head shorter than the King.

"Within a fortnight. He is not fit for travel now, but once Elrond's healed him as best he can, he's coming straight here."

"I suppose we'll have to have things readied for him, then." Legolas said with a meek smile.