Author's note: All the characters (except one, which is subsequently a creation of the movie) are Professor Tolkien's creations. The mistakes and lack of finesse of this story are mine. This is also set in movie-verse, which is ironic for me since there are some aspects of the movie that I highly contest to.

At His End

O Elbereth Starkindler,
from heaven gazing afar,
to thee I cry now beneath the shadow of death!
O look towards me, Everwhite.

My strength was at its end.

And it lessened at each swing, each thrust and each strike of my sword. The grace and vigour which I carried into this battle has long been gone, and now I fight with exhaustion and weakness marring my movements. I fight, and yet they do not seem to lessen. They are far too many, and we are far too less. Hordes and hordes of the filthy creatures swarmed at us, relentlessly attacking and providing no space to breathe—No reprieve to collect thoughts or to gather strength. What had began as a quest to reclaim jewels became a fight for our survival. How it ends—I do not know. Hope seems to be dimming light.

I look around and see many of the fallen elves who lay at the field. I knew them. I loved them. These are my people whom I knew each by name. And now they are dead—far from home and into some cursed wasteland.

My heart breaks. But I cannot mourn, not yet.

As their king, I should endure.

But this battle—will it ever end?

A few more swings and fallen orcs later, I gave another sweeping look at the field. That was when I saw you at the distant. My heart stopped. Ion-nin.

You were having your own battle, and I could see the same exhaustion setting in your still-determined eyes. Ah, penneth. To see you fight weaves pride into my heart, but also fear. And it is this same fear that is the reason why I have kept you and my people almost as prisoners—closing off the kingdom so much as to isolate it. I wanted to protect you from the insufferable darkness that lies outside. But I had failed to see, or rather, I saw but failed to acknowledge the suffocation this entailed you and my people. I had created darkness inside the halls too.

An utter failure, I am—both as King and as Father.

It was in these musings that I saw what I had feared the most. While fending off the orcs that assailed you on one side, you did not see the incoming enemy that charged you on the other. It was with horror-stricken eyes that I watched as the orc's mace made contact with your head, making you sail through the air a few yards before unceremoniously dropping off into the dirt ground. I saw no effort in getting up. You were unconscious.

No.

So I bolted quickly, and yelled when I was near enough so as to gain the attention of the orcs that were threatening to give the final blow. It would be their heads that would roll, not yours ion-nin. And so I plunged my sword at the orc that came nearest, swung it at the second one who came after, deflected the blow of the third and promptly gave the after-attack. I danced through the onslaught that was attacking, somehow getting that spare energy at the thought of your unconscious body that lay near. I will protect you, no matter what.

And then, a sharp, searing pain disconnected me from my thoughts. A blade protruded through my stomach, the steel covered with my own blood. An orc had managed to strike me at my back while I was engaging with two other orcs. If anything, this was surely a testament to how weary I am at this point. In its sick pleasure, the orc twisted the sword inside me and I wallowed in unbelievable pain. I turned around and graced my blade at the orc's neck, and with one fell swoop its disgusting head rolled off. I sighed shakily, my head reeling from the injury.

Just then, two more blades plunged into me. Aside from the first one that was still lodged in my stomach, the second pierced through the armor at my chest, and the third plunged halfway through. I let off an involuntary yelp from the pain. Using the last vestiges of my strength, I raised my weapon, slashed and killed off the two. My vision beginning to blur, I struck my sword to the ground for support and promptly fixed my eyes on you, who were beginning to rouse from unconsciousness.

The Valar be praised. You are safe, son, you are safe.

It then occurred to me that more orcs were now coming near, but I could not move. My whole body writhed and trembled in pain, my vision darkened, and I was finding it harder and harder to breathe. My hand unconsciously reached for the wound at my abdomen, and felt that it was too wet—the armor slick with my own blood. The footsteps were looming in too close. I had to act. I had to act but my body won't follow. I can barely even lift my head when I saw one of the orcs raise his weapon, poised to cut off my head in a strike.

It never came.

Though it vaguely registered in my mind, the orc fell and writhed from the arrow that went straight to its head. I shifted my eyes and saw a familiar she-elf release more arrows to the orcs around me. Ah, Tauriel. I had watched her grow, and loved her as much as I've loved my people. But like Legolas, she too had felt the clutches of my hand too tight, and sought to break free—to see the light beyond what I could provide for. The list of people who I disappoint seems to grow ever longer.

I saw her mouth the words "Aran-nin" but I could not hear it. All I could hear was the beating of my own heart, which pounded aflame in my chest. The pain was becoming too unbearable. I shakily reached and pulled out the swords that were lurched through my body, and crimson steadily flowed out from it. My knees gave in, and I collapse.

Everything around me hazed, and I became less and less aware of the battle sounds, and more and more of my own rapidly beating heart—which failingly tries to make up for the lost blood—and my lungs, which heaved at every breath. The air was thick with smoke and death. The pain was…fading away, and the numbness and cold have started crawling in.

I was dying.

It was then that I saw you run towards me. Your face took the whole of my vision, with those battle-weary eyes that screamed out desperation, and with words I could only guess the meaning. You were assessing me, and when you saw the wounds my hands were trying to press I saw your eyes widen and your mouth gape. You tried to staunch one wound yourself, covering and pressing down my hands with yours, but the blood was too much. You cup my cheek on your other hand, and plead words with anguish. I could see your eyes wet. Your hand tremble, as it seeks the warmth in my face that was fading away.

Legolas, my son. I am sorry.

Of all people, it was you who I feared to disappoint the most. But it seems it was the only I've ever done to you. Even in death, I…

Ah.

Do not cry, Penneth. Dry your tears.

At the corner of my vision, I saw Tauriel sprint towards my side. Her face was gritted and bloodied from the battle, and her hair and clothes disheveled and torn. She gave a quick scan of my state, swallowed the shock that came, and then hastily drew her hands onto the wound on my chest and chanted healing words. Her hands were trembling too. Slow down, little one. You need not be so spent on one dying elf.

Ah, strength. Tauriel's words gave me some, and my senses gained some clarity. For a moment, I could hear sounds other than the dying beat of my heart; the sound of the battlefield, Tauriel's chants, and your cries, tithen las.

"Adar, please," Your voice breaks. "Please, not like this," Fresh tears stream down your cheek, and it paved clear ways on your bruised and battle-gritted face.

Faintly, I raised my hand and tried to wipe away those stray tears. Your hands met mine half-way, and you readily rested my palm on your cheek, staining your face with my own blood.

"Ada…stay with me. Live,"

Ah, but I'm tired, elfling.

"Live."

I cannot. You know so too, Legolas.

My eyes, they have become heavy and weary from exhaustion. And if I let it close, I'm afraid it won't open anymore—not even for you, my child. And so I drink the sight of your eyes, beautiful as it is the stars of Elbereth, and capture the warmth of your cheek, which was fire to my cold hands.

The pain is gone, penneth. The hall, it calls and sings. And with you as my last vision, I could not ask for anything else.

You see it in my eyes, and your own ones widen in realization. "N-no…Valar, no!"

I wanted to tell you that I am sorry—I am sorry that I became more of a King than a Father to you.

Thank you for being the sole light I clung unto when the darkness of the world had become too unbearable, even for me.

You are the son I never deserved to have, penneth. And I apologize for the guilt, pain and tears my passing would cause you, for I know that you will mourn. You are too kind-hearted not to. Just like her.

Shewould be proud of you, ion-nin. As I am.

Be a great king, Legolas. Rise where I have fallen, and live.

These are the words I wanted to tell you. But words fail me, son—No, not even in my last moments can I tell you these. Instead, a whisper. A dying breath.

"Strength, Legolas."

And then darkness.

This is a musing that occurred to me while I read the Hobbit. I am in love with Thranduil the Elvenking (next to Bilbo), and I think he's one of the most misunderstood characters in the fanbase. He had nothing but his own strength and measures to protect his realm, and I think that's something.

The movie (especially the second one) had bits which I am really against, but overall I think it was a good movie.

The hymn at the start is from the Elvish hymn A Elbereth Gilthoniel written in the books (LOTR).