There he was.

Sitting in the cold, almost empty room, completely alone. His mother had been right all along. Her words rang in Tor-Hùrion's mind. "Lasto, Ionneg. The forest is not a place for being alone. It is full of dangers beyond your strength. You are yet young to be there alone."

The elfling sits down on the plain bed that is meant for him and sighs.

Never in his life has he been so deep underground. It makes him feel cold and disconnected from the world that he knows. All of his life he had lived on the edge of the green forest. The plains between the Anduin and Mirkwood have always been his playing ground, sharing it with the Beorn's beasts and sometimes even with some curious animals from Rhosgobel.

And now, cold walls of the caves surround him, leaving the feeling of loneliness inside him. He has been alone before, but never felt alone. His mother's love was always his companion, even if she wasn't able to physically be there for him, whenever he needed her.

He stands up from the bed and walks to the little table that had food on it and takes in his surroundings. The room is very plain, only a bed, a chair and a little table in one corner and a small bath at the opposite corner. The room almost feels like prison. Which in his case, it is.

Tor-Hùrion tears a piece out of the bread and put it into his mouth. He chews few times, almost tentatively and then nods to himself as if in agreement. The bread seems to be very good and he, in fact, was getting really hungry. He takes the whole bread into his hands and starts eating the fluffy food with huge bites. He finishes it off quickly, taking a big gulp of water to wash the pastry down.

He is just about to sit down to bed again, when he hears the door behind him open. He turns around just in time to be face to face with the silver glory of the King of Mirkwood again.

"Leave," the king tells to the guards behind him, whom quickly make their way out and close the door.

The boy straightens himself, trying to look taller in front of the elf-king. But he doesn't say anything and is watching the older elf with curious eyes.

"I have a question for you, youngling." Thranduil announces.

Tor-Hùrion nods. "I'm listening."

The King points to the long dagger on his belt.

"Where did you get this?"

The boy looks down and pulls the dagger out of the stealth carefully, trying not to point it at Thranduil.

"This?" he looks at the King questioningly.

"Yes," Thranduil breathes out annoyedly. He is impatient. He demands, "You have to tell me."

Tor-Hùrion looks at his dark blade with a wooden hilt. "I have always had it, as long as I remember."

"It's impossible." The king puffs out a breath of air and starts to pace along the room. "It's impossible that you have this dagger. It was lost long time ago, you can't have that blade in your hands."

Tor-Hùrion furrows his brows in confusion. "I do not understand you. How can it be impossible, if it is possible?"

"Tell me, who gave it to you!" Thranduil demands again, getting more and more agitated. "Or did you take it off a dead body?"

The elf ling gasps loudly at that, "How dare you to imply such thing!"

"Where else you would have gotten this?" the King is practically yelling at this point.

It is the last straw for Tor-Huron and he yells back with the same kind of fire. "My mother gave it to me for protection!"

All of a sudden, all the blood from Thranduil's face seems to be gone. He had fair skin to begin with but now he looks like he had seen a ghost, his cheeks pale and eyes hollow. "Your mo…" he gulps and takes a breath. He repeats quietly. "Your mother?"

"Yes." the boy hisses out. He is utterly confused by the change emotions that the King carries in himself.

Thranduil looks at the boy with intensity, but doesn't come any closer. Instead, he turns his head away from the elfling and asks. "Pray tell, where she got the dagger?"

Tor-Hùrion is silent for a little while, trying to remember exactly what her mother had said. "When I asked about them many years ago, she only said that these were remnants of her old life. A legacy that keeps her safe from the horrors of this world."

"These?" The King whispers. "There are two of them?"

"Yes," The boy nods. "One for me and one for her."

The King nods as an answer and presses his lips together. "Far." he whispers and promptly leaves the room, leaving the young boy alone and confused.

Thranduil makes his way to his quarters. It has been a long day and even longer evening. He feels his elven bones aching and all he wants to do is put his head on a pillow and sleep. But he can't. Not when there is a thousand questions running around in his head.

Who is this little elf with fire in his eyes?

Thranduil has no doubts at this point. No doubts at all about the mother of the child.

It's too obvious.

Tauriel would not leave his dagger with just anybody. The sign that Tor-Hùrion has one of her daggers only means one thing. Tor-Hùrion must be her child.

But how? When? Why?

The questions flood his head and he lets out a long sigh just when he reaches his rooms.

Galion closes the doors behind him and he is finally alone.

Ditching his long silver robe, he heads towards the table by the pool. He reaches for the wine bottle and pours the red liquid to a beautiful glass.

With the wineglass in his hand, he walks towards the balcony in the far end of the room.

He has not seen Tauriel for around twenty years. Ever since the horrible day at the Ravenhill, when he failed to protect her and after that, he never saw her again. She was still under the impression that she was banished and fled, leaving him and his realm into the sadness of the loneliness.

Tor-Hùrion must be at least fifteen or more years old by the looks of it, Thranduil thinks by himself. Such fire in his eyes. Thranduil should have seen the connection between his former Captain of the Guard and the young prisoner earlier than this. He should have understood it at the moment he saw the boy. But the years clouded with solitary days have left a mark in him.

But why now? Why did the young boy got lost in the forest and dragged into the deep realm of the Mirkwood now? What is the meaning of this?

Thranduil shakes his head as if trying to create some order in the chaos in his head. But it's useless. The only thing it creates is more questions and they keep popping in to his mind like mushrooms after rain.

He reaches to the balcony and leans against the railing. The first rays of silver moon greet him, before it disappears behind the treetops. He sighs and lowers his head.

Then, a sudden thought enters his tortured head and he pushes his head up again, his eyes squint and concentrate on the silhouettes of the trees.

If the child is Tauriel's, then who is the father?

The boy looks positively Silvan in his heritage, but there is something more to it. Surely, Tor-Hùrion can't be the child of the dwarf Tauriel had briefly loved. Or thought she had loved him. There is nothing in the looks of the young boy to suggest that he is a mix between elven and dwarven races.

No. The child is positively elvish.

But who? Legolas? Somebody from the guard? Maybe…

Suddenly his thoughts come to a halt and his mind concentrates to only one thing – a long dark blade pressed against his neck.