All That Remains

by SkyleafAlchemist19

Five year-old Legolas is captured by orcs and taken to Dol Guldur, where he is given to an assassin to be trained. The Nazgûl underestimated their assassin's new-found hatred of the Enemy however. Their plan backfires when a deadly but good Legolas escapes, hiding from the kin who think him dead and killing orcs from the shadows...

2. 1: In the Depths of Dol Guldur

Chapter One: In the Depths of Dol Guldur

Third Age 2611. (400 years ago...)

Dol Guldur. The Hill of Sorcery. A fortress of darkness and evil, it stood tall in the Southern section of the forest once known as Greenwood the Great, now called Mirkwood. The structure was a beacon for all kinds of evil, from the Nazgûl that resided there to the orcs, goblins, and cruel men that were drawn to the black towers of the fortress. For hundreds of years Dol Guldur emitted it's malice into the surrounding forest, corrupting the once-green trees until they blackened with anger and hatred, lashing out against the light. It was said that the fortress then had this affect on all things that resided within it, dooming them to evil. The Witch-King's presence only added to the stronghold's might. Few could resist the corruption, and even fewer could make themselves immune. And yet, deep in Dol Guldur's dark halls, two beings were indeed immune to their home's power.

Legolas sat on the railing of a balcony that overlooked the forest, one leg drawn up to his chest while the other swung freely in the air. Long pale blonde hair cascaded to his mid-back, left loose except for the two braids that kept stragglers away from his face. Normally, an elf such as himself would be attacked and killed on sight by all of the Evil in Dol Guldur. However, Legolas was a special case. Because while he had the gracefulness, looks, and ears of an elf, Legolas did not glow like all other elves did. Without his natural glow, Legolas could easily pass for a man as long as he covered his ear-tips. He was a very fair and beautiful "man" of course, but still a man to the casual observer.

Ciaran had taught Legolas how to suppress his inner light early on. It was necessary for the young elf's survival in Dol Guldur. Orcs and other dark creatures all had a profound hatred for elves, not because of their beauty or grace, but because of their natural glow. The glow— a beacon of light in the darkest places— angered and disgusted the orcs in particular, reminding them of what they once were. Orcs did not like to be reminded that they were once elves. And so they attacked all elves with a fierce and savage blood-lust. Luckily, Legolas was able to suppress his inner light mere days after entering Dol Guldur, so the orcs generally left him alone. At least, they did not try to tear him apart as an elfling.

As a result, suppressing his glow had become second nature to Legolas. It put no strain on his mind, body, or spirit, and was a helpful tool when sneaking around in dark shadows. The only side effect that came with this technique was intriguing but harmless. For an unknown reason, Legolas's eyes turned a bright violet— and stayed that way— whenever his inner light was suppressed. Legolas had been suppressing his glow nonstop for the past eighty years of his life, and would have forgotten that his eyes were naturally silver-blue if not for Ciaran reminding him.

Ciaran had become a mix of teacher, friend, and father-figure for the young elf. Legolas did not remember his birth father, or anything from his life before being captured by the orcs and taken here. Occasionally, he would get a brief flash of blurred memories as he slept, but other than that, nothing. He did not know why the memories had faded— he had never received any head injuries in his training with Ciaran— but had a feeling that the darkness of Dol Guldur had something to do with it. Yet that same power that had been unable to corrupt him or Ciaran. Along with the expected training to become a warrior and assassin, Ciaran had taught Legolas four important lessons, ones he knew were imperative in the deception against the Nazgûl:

"Harden your heart so you never falter."

"Shield your soul so it cannot be corrupted."

"Close off your mind so none can invade it."

"Mask your emotions so they cannot be used against you."

To the Nazgûl and orcs of Dol Guldur, Legolas and Ciaran were loyal servants of Sauron. In reality, the two were plotting their enemies' dooms. Along with learning how to kill a man in a hundred different ways, Legolas learned the quickest and most efficient way to slay orcs and goblins. When learning how to hide from Light Magic and the Magic of the Elves, Legolas was given lessons on how to resist Black Magic in it's darkest forms. Legolas learned curses in Black Speech and words of healing in Sindarin and Quenyan, and was fluent in many of the languages of the different species of Middle-earth.

Legolas was deadly to both sides in the war for Middle-earth, and could easily have been a rogue element, shifting from side to side like Ciaran had for many years. Yet it had been the assassin's teachings and shielding of the young elf from Evil's influence, and one memory that would keep Legolas in the fight for Good forever.

The only memory he had from his past was that of an orc taunting him about his mother's death.

The elf wanted nothing more than to stab the Orc Captain, Grihtz, through the heart every time he saw him, but knew that he could not. The Enemy believed that Legolas was completely loyal to Sauron, and that Ciaran was a neutral element but swung their way. Deception was the two's best friend in Dol Guldur, and it would not do for the Enemy to be alerted that their two "loyal" assassins were plotting against them. Not while the two were trapped.

The Witch-King's power and control over the fortress was too much for Legolas and Ciaran to escape without a confrontation with the Ringwraiths. Despite their training and skill, even they stood no chance against all nine of the Nazgûl, especially in Dol Guldur. The Black Magic powered by the Ringwraiths' presences— specifically the Witch-King's— was too potent in the fortress for them to overcome. If they tried to fight or escape, their movements would be slowed and their wills weakened by the Witch-King. It was inevitable in Dol Guldur.

While immune to corruption, the two were not infallible against such compressed Dark energy. Eighty years of planning would be wasted if they tried to leave while the Witch-King was inside the fortress. Like a person who knew there was a bug crawling on their skin, the Witch-King was ever-aware of Legolas and Ciaran's movements within the fortress. He did not know what they were doing, but he knew where they were. And so the two assassins patiently waited. The longer they did nothing to openly oppose the Nazgûl or orcs, the more lax the Enemy became.

There had been a few near-misses when Legolas was younger, though. The elfling's first kill had been a man who worked for the Shadow, when Legolas was the equivalent of a human seven year-old. He had barely managed to hold back his emotions until he and Ciaran had returned to their rooms in the fortress. There, the elder assassin had held the elfling as he sobbed for the life he had taken. To this day, Legolas still felt grief whenever he took the life of a man, and even then the life would be taken only in self-defense.

For orcs and goblins, he had no such qualms. The elf could easily kill them without being provoked. This difference in reaction was a relief to Ciaran, who had worried that his apprentice would become completely detached when he killed. Legolas's grief saddened yet warmed the older assassin's heart, telling him that the young compassionate elfling still resided in the warrior's body. The goodness was well-hidden, but it did exist. And that was all that mattered.

Legolas continued to watch the trees, longing to go outside of the fortress. It was not a desire to be beneath the trees so much as a simple wish to not have stone around him. He was not completely without nature, of course. As an elf, he could not survive within the stone fortress forever. Years ago, Ciaran managed to convince the orcs to plant a single oak tree in the two assassins' training grounds. It was a shadowed tree, but still a tree nonetheless.

That tree was enough for Legolas to connect with, and learn it's languages along with the language of it's light kin. Through this tree, he could vaguely converse with the shadowed trees outside of Dol Guldur, even reaching the light trees that lived further away if he concentrated. At first the elf— at that time an elfling— did not know why the shadowed trees spoke to and understood him, accepting him unlike his kin, but suspected that it had something to do with his suppressed glow.

He asked his oak tree about their acceptance once, and received a surprising answer. To the trees, Legolas's aura was not blinding and painful like the auras of other elves. It was pleasantly muted, not overwhelming the shadowed trees senses. The trees did not feel pain at his touch. Instead, when he touched them, they felt warm, vaguely remembering an echo of what they once were.

Light. Joyful. Green. Lively. Beautiful.

The touch of the Eldar once brought this forgotten joy to the trees. Now, all it brought was pain. The elves' touch burned as painful as fire, too light and warm for the shadowed trees. Their touch hurt, and pain made the trees angry. It made them forget their love for the elves. It made them want the source of their pain gone. But this was not true for Legolas, the elf that was not too bright for their darkness, but not too shadowed for their remnants of life.

The shadowed trees called him Daelas. Shadow Leaf.

Legolas was not sure how he felt about the name. His worst fear was that he truly was doomed to the shadows, that he was not quite an elf because of his abilities and skills. In all the years of learning History from Ciaran, Legolas had never heard of an Elven Assassin, or an elf who could talk with shadowed trees and suppress his inner light. Elves were beings of purity and light, were they not? So what was he?

Legolas half-heard, half-sensed the orc coming up behind him but did not turn, his posture still calm and relaxed. The orc halted fifteen feet behind the elf, and he could hear the dark soldier shifting from foot to foot. The assassin mentally smirked, keeping all expression off his face. When he was an elfling, the orcs left him alone because of his suppressed glow, the Witch-King's orders, and Ciaran's killing sprees if they so much as looked at his apprentice the wrong way. Now, the residents of Dol Guldur tended to avoid him for different reasons: fear and survival.

If an orc or goblin attacked Ciaran or Legolas, the two were free to kill them in retaliation. The Witch-King did not care what happened to his lowest grunts, and if they were stupid enough to antagonize the assassins, they were too stupid to live. The Lord of the Nazgûl was unaware how much the two assassins used this to their advantage, or how many orcs they actually killed. Orcs died all the time in Dol Guldur, stabbed in the back by their allies. Legolas and Ciaran could kill without leaving a trace, or in a way that made it appear that a Race other than their own committed the act. And they had done just that, many, many times.

"Yes?" Legolas asked the orc in a flat, cool voice.

The orc jumped, backing up a step. "The Witch-King requests your presence." he said in a deep, gravelly voice. He looked as if a dropped pin would make him flee.

Legolas looked at him with his unnerving violet eyes, the orc swiftly caught in the chaotic depths of his gaze. It was well-known that some elves could capture a being with the hidden wisdom and power shown through their eyes, an ability that some ignorant mortals called magic. In reality, this "power" was nothing more than the mortal's reaction and surprise. Elves that were thousands of years old looked no older than thirty, and yet their eyes could show ancientness beyond mortal comprehension. It was this that made many mortals freeze under the gaze of the Eldar.

Legolas's glowing violet eyes amplified the affect, so it was a little more effective than the norm. Through his eyes, many could see wisdom, but also danger and wildness. His eyes could promise death, inspire fear, and cause the bravest man to falter. All because of their unnatural shade, the impossible hue of violet no Race of Middle-earth possessed.

The elf let the orc sweat a little beneath his gaze before he turned back to the window. "Your message is noted. Leave."

He spoke purposely, in a cold, condescending voice, waiting for the orc to react. Orcs were proud creatures, quick to anger if insulted. Angry orcs did not think, which was all Legolas needed. Sure enough, the orc snapped, grabbing him by the throat and lifting him into the air. "Why you little—" He paused, yellow eyes widening as he realized who he had just attacked. Unfortunately for him, it was already too late.

Legolas remained calm despite his lack of air. Moving his right hand, he gently pressed a spot on the grunt's forearm. The orc yelped as his arm went numb, his hold on the elf relaxing. Legolas landed lightly on his feet. He smiled at the orc, a fake, cold smile that promised nothing but death.

The elf spoke a single word. "Run."

And the orc did.

Legolas watched him go, mentally counting down in his head. Three...

The orc was out the door, running down the hall to get away from the elf with the unnatural eyes.

Two...

He headed towards the barracks, where Legolas was not allowed to go. Surely he would be safe there?

One...

The elf was not following him. Why was he not following him?

Zero.

The orc paused, standing stock-still in the center of the hallway. Without making a sound he collapsed, dead before he could hit the floor. A small wound to his sternum trickled black blood. The orc had not even known he had been stabbed. No one was around to witness his sudden demise, and the orcs that would stumble upon his body later would shrug and drag him away without even considering an investigation. It was these small acts of vengeance against his captors that kept Legolas sane, that prevented him from exploding and rampaging through the orcs ranks until those responsible for his capture and his mother's death were massacred. That would not do, because following that path would lead to nothing but his own death. And Legolas, trapped as he was, had too much to live for.

Back at the balcony, Legolas turned on his heel and traveled through the fortress, headed towards the Witch-King's seat of power that resided in the tallest tower. The halls of Dol Guldur were ruined black stone, not even the torches holding back the large shadows that penetrated the fortress. The sun never shone on the Hill of Sorcery, the sky always in a deep overcast, yet somehow it did not rain. The Darkness was so strong that many Elves, Dwarves, and Men would have collapsed before it's might. But not Legolas.

At the bottom of the stairs he met Ciaran, who merely quirked an eyebrow at him but did not speak. The Dunedain had not changed much in the eighty years since Legolas had come to Dol Guldur. At least, not physically. The cold, apathetic man he had once been had been replaced by a calm teacher and father. Ciaran was a mix of the assassin he used to be and the father he had become with Brian. The orcs never saw the patience Ciaran had when teaching Legolas the pressure points in a human body, and never spotted the sadness in the man's eyes whenever the elf named them all correctly.

Ciaran could not escape with the elfling all those years ago, but he did manage to keep Legolas's childhood relatively happy. He managed to keep the elf good, and made sure that he knew which side he was on in the battle for Middle-earth. Ciaran was glad that Legolas did not face the cruel training he had faced as a child, and that the elf never became like him.

Side by side, the two hidden lights in a sea of darkness ascended the winding stairs that led up to the Witch-King. As they climbed, the air around them grew steadily heavier and darker, the Black Magic that made the Hill of Sorcery so evil escalating the higher they went. Neither elf nor man were affected by it, their shields locked tight around them, keeping their minds and bodies safe. They halted before a large door made of black wood, Ciaran knocking once before entering.

The Witch-King sat on a throne of black stone, blending into the shadows that shrouded his cloaked form. Torched with green flames lined the walls, doing nothing to bring light to the room and only making the shadows deeper. It seemed as if each corner was an abyss, ready to swallow anyone who dared to wander too close. Legolas and Ciaran stopped before the Witch-King, kneeling and bowing low before their "Lord".

"You summoned us, My Lord?" Ciaran asked in a smooth, calm voice. The Nazgûl Lord's fear-inspiring aura had no affect on either assassin. They did not fear the Ringwraiths.

A soft, hissing voice emitted from the darkness beneath the hood. "For eighty years you have taught your pupil your trade. Tomorrow he will be tested."

Neither assassin reacted or blinked. "What is the test, My Lord?" Ciaran asked.

Flaming eyes glittered from within the dark depths. "He will face thirty orcs in battle. If he survives, we will begin the final stage of his training."

Legolas and Ciaran kept their thoughts off of their faces. They both knew what the "final stage" was. The Witch-King would cast Dark Magic upon Legolas, binding him in servitude to Sauron. That was not what worried the two, however. Legolas's training and resistance against Dark Magic was too thorough for the Witch-King's magic to work. There would be no affect on him, and the Nazgûl Lord would instantly know he had been deceived. The two would be found out and killed, all of their work for nothing.

Legolas did not straighten up or let false pleasure show on his face. That would only be seen as fake. He was an assassin, trained to be the Hand of Sauron. He showed no emotion, he felt no emotion. He was cold, aloof, and apathetic to all things, even the news that he would soon be serving his Lord. Legolas knew what was expected of him, and acted his part accordingly.

"Unfortunately, I and my kin have a prior engagement in Minas Morgul and cannot watch your test." the Witch-King continued. "Captain Grihtz will oversee your final exam. You are dismissed."

Heartbeats did not change, expressions remained the same, but deep inside the safety of their thoughts Legolas and Ciaran were experiencing a mix of hope and suspicion. They bowed to the Ringwraith before exiting the room, feeling his dark gaze on their backs.

Why would the Witch-King tell us that he and the other Nazgûl are leaving? Legolas wondered, face revealing nothing. Does he trust us or is he suspicious? He did not allow his concern to show on his face or in his movements, walking through the dark halls as casually as one strode through a village market. There was no room for fear or uncertainty in Dol Guldur. Not for them.

They made their way through the dark halls, steps confident and sure as they ignored the orcs around them. Power equaled survival in a place like this, and the two assassins exuded it in the subtle, dangerous auras surrounding them. The message they sent to the orcs around them was simple: Anger us and die. It was intriguing that two beings could hold such power, yet be so powerless at the same time.

No one stopped the pair as they went to their rooms, some orcs even flinching out of the way as they passed. That was how things were run here. Inspiring power and fear let one come out on top. Even though all he used these techniques on were orcs, Legolas still hated it. His natural personality wanted to lead and be respected through love and good deeds. But in Dol Guldur, that would not happen.

Ciaran and Legolas entered their small section of the fortress, going out into their small training field and sitting beneath Legolas's shadowed oak tree. Still, the two did not speak their thoughts aloud. Instead, they communicated silently in the sign language of the Dwarves, Iglishmêk, which not even the Witch-King knew.

"What now?" Legolas asked. "Tomorrow is my trial, and the Witch-King departs from Dol Guldur. Do you think this is a test, and he will remain here to see what we do?"

"If he remains here, you will be able to sense it." Ciaran responded. "Even so, tomorrow is our last chance to escape. If we do not, we will be discovered anyway when the Witch-King attempts to bind you to the Dark Lord. We must leave tomorrow."

"What is your plan?" Legolas signed back. "Do we attempt to sneak past their defenses?"

"Yes. Though if the Witch-King is not out of the fortress when we do, it will be useless." the man closed his eyes for a brief moment, letting out a soft sigh. "Either way, tomorrow will be our last day in Dol Guldur. Tomorrow we will leave this place, through freedom or death, Prince."

Prince. The name that Ciaran always called Legolas, although the elf did not know why. Nor did he care, for it was just a nickname after all.

The fortress of Dol Guldur had failed to take many things from Legolas. He kept his light, his goodness, his joy. He kept his mind, his freedom, his life. He even kept his morals, which many had lost in the dark Hill of Sorcery. But there was one thing he had lost. The elf did not remember much from before his arrival in Hill of Sorcery. He remembered his mother, but only vaguely. Every other memory was gone. Every single one.

Legolas did not remember his father. He did not know he had brothers and sisters. He did not remember pieces of the lullaby his mother used to sing to him, or the name of the place he had once called home. He did not even remember what it looked like. All of these memories, pieces of his life from before Dol Guldur, were cut off from him, including the identity he once held.

Legolas did not remember he was a son of the Elvenking of Mirkwood. He did not know he was a Prince.

LOTRLOTRLOTR

The palace of the Elvenking was as somber as a tomb. No laughter sounded through the halls. No gossip was passed between the servants. The guards were stoically silent, expressions blank or grave. A heavy grief hung over the stone halls, like a terrible storm about to break. The tension, despair, and grief were shadows penetrating the heart of the kingdom, and none could lift it.

Thranduil sat on his throne, staring at the door, waiting for it to open. He knew that it would happen soon. Every day, after all of his meetings were done, the Elvenking sat alone in the throne-room, waiting. He did not know why he still waited. The news he received never changed. In fact, it had been growing steadily vaguer and more distant these past few years. Yet deep in his heart, Thranduil knew that one of his older children would come through that door after a day on patrols. They would come in, with weariness and despair on their faces, and tell him that they could not find Legolas. They would say that they could not get close enough to Dol Guldur to find out anything. The shadowed trees reacted too violently for the elves to use stealth around the fortress. And so the warriors would come back with no news.

No news was better and worse than some news. Because Thranduil knew of only two other things his children and the warriors would say if they did manage to find out what happened to Legolas: "He's alive." or "He's dead." The Elvenking did not know what words he feared more. And so the repeated reports of nothing new pained and relieved him. He was so selfishly relieved...

The door opened. Thranduil looked up as Megilag, his second son, strode in. So it was his turn today. Aglar, Megilag, Bereneth and Fael split up the patrols between them, scheduling it into their weekly routine. The King's warrior children always led the patrols, none of the other warriors protesting or asking for a change. There was rarely change.

There was no smile on Megilag's face, but no tears either. Instead his hazel eyes were blank, like the eyes of all his children when they told him nothing. All of them were numb, following the same routine every day, but unwilling to give it up. If they stopped patrolling the border near Dol Guldur, if they stopped trying to find a way past the angry trees and into the fortress, then they were giving up on Legolas.

Legolas, his Greenleaf, now known as the Lost Prince throughout the Elven realms.

Megilag did not go to his father and King, keeping his distance with his eyes on the ground. He could not move from the spot in which he stood, the customary distance for a captain giving a report. He could not break from the routine. He brushed a strand of silver-gold hair back from his face and spoke in a flat voice. "There was nothing."

There it was. The single sentence that Thranduil despised because of it's repetitiveness and prayed for instead of a more terrible alternative. The phrase that had not changed for eighty years. That was all that needed to be said for Thranduil, although in reality it did not need to be spoken. Thranduil always knew there was nothing when his children walked through the door. Eighty years had not been enough time for the grief to fade, and yet it was slowly eating away at the Elvenking's soul. A sharp shudder went through Thranduil and he pressed a hand to his chest. He gasped aloud, leaning over on his throne as physical pain assaulted him. Immediately his second son was at his side, clutching his arm as he shook.

So much could not change, and yet so much had changed. Everyone— his children, his warriors, his people, and himself— suffered, each failure weighing greatly upon them, and only adding to the ever-heavier weights on their hearts and souls. Thranduil was distant and withdrawn, yet somehow managed to keep the kingdom running. The only reason he did not fade long ago was because the children he still had needed him, as did their kingdom. But his family was broken by Luineth's death and Legolas's kidnapping.

Aglar was stiff and cold. He never smiled or walked through the city to greet the people like he used to. Megilag was cold, numb, or harsh, training his warriors grimly and reacting to anything less than perfect with cool anger. He no longer flirted with every Elleth he met. Both eldest sons hunted orcs with a savage hatred in their spare time, leaving none they hunted alive. They were rarely home.

Barhad, who had always been a scholar, dove into his studies, more prone to be reading dusty old scrolls in a tiny, dark study than be outside among the trees. His twin, Bereneth, was quick to anger, snapping at people for the smallest faults. And Fael had not pulled a single prank in all the years since the disappearance, content only when training.

Only Hannel had tried her best to retain her old self and pretend everything was normal. She was still motherly, taking care of all her siblings whenever she visited from Lothlorien. But on her last visit, Bereneth— who had just returned from the Patrol— had screamed at her about not caring about Legolas. Hannel had had gone silent, then left. She simply left, and she had never come back to Mirkwood since. Her siblings would still visit her in Lothlorien on occasion, but not as often as they used to.

The Royal Family's losses were so great, it was no wonder the remaining family had shattered. Legolas and Luineth had been the ties that held them together, they had all realized too late. But now they were drifting apart, almost strangers despite their shared blood.

"Eighty years." the Elvenking rasped. "Eighty years to the day tomorrow." Megilag did not ask what he was speaking of. He knew. Another shudder went through the King's form, another pain striking his heart. "I cannot heal. I cannot let this go. We cannot let go. So we are shattering, fading from within..." He heard his son give a sharp intake of breath and tried to reassure him. "No. I'm not fading. I won't leave you all."

And yet the pain in his chest— in his spirit— said otherwise. It would be so easy to let go, to allow his grieving soul to pass on into death. Thranduil clung grimly to life day by day, clutching to the hope that Legolas would be returned to them one day. But he could feel himself weakening. If something did not happen, if Legolas's fate remained a mystery, the Elvenking feared that he would give in. Only the futile hope and a sense of duty had kept him grounded to Middle-earth for the past eight decades. But it was becoming harder, so, so much harder to resist...

"Ada?" Megilag's concerned voice drew the exhausted father out of his musings.

Thranduil's eyes focused to find his second-eldest son standing in front of him, his hands placed lightly upon his father's shoulders. The fear in those ancient and too-young eyes struck the Elvenking's core, making his heart clench in a way that had nothing to do with fading.

"I am fine." Thranduil tried to reassure him. "I am fine." he repeated, as if to affirm the statement. They both knew that he was lying.

"Ada," Megilag whispered, voice soft and strained. "You cannot carry on like this. None of us can."

Thranduil merely looked at him, the fire in his eyes gone. "Then what do we do, Ion-nin?" he asked. "Do we let go? Do we forget? Do we leave your brother to his fate? Tell me, what should we do?" Years ago, the words might have been said in anger, with a loud voice that demanded obedience. Now, the King's voice was soft, filled with an emptiness that threatened to pull all hearing it into despair.

Megilag stared wordlessly at his father, and spoke with the same numbness as he. "I don't know. I do not know what to do." His head dropped in defeat, his fists clenching at his sides.

Many wondered why the Royal Family had not followed their mother and wife to the grave. At first, it was hope for Legolas that banked them. But now that hope was fading fast. Their grip on life was fading, some more obviously then in others, and with it Mirkwood's ability to fight the Shadow was also failing. Thranduil knew it. His children knew it. The warriors and guards of Mirkwood knew it. And they were powerless to stop it.

If their lasting hope faded completely, or Legolas died, two things could happen. One possibility was that all of the Royal Family would fade, leaving Mirkwood leaderless. Without the will of the King or his children, Mirkwood would fall to the Shadow. The other possibility, however, could be even worse. Thranduil and four of his children— Aglar, Megilag, Bereneth, and Fael— were known to be stubborn, confrontational, and unwilling to compromise with others. If the worst came to pass, instead of fading, the family could become colder than they already were, lashing out at outsiders in anger and rage. Mirkwood Elves already had a reputation of being unfriendly, and that persona could become reality. Either way, the family— except perhaps Hannel who had distanced herself from the others for so long— would be doomed, to slow death or cold unhappiness if Legolas was not returned alive.

And so the Elvenking and his six accountable children prayed for their youngest sibling and son. They begged for Legolas's life, pleading with the Valar to give him back to them. Each day they went out and searched for answers, finding none. And each day they clung to their desperate hope, hope they had kept alive for eighty years.

In the end, hope was all they had left.

LOTRLOTRLOTR

Disclaimer: I do not own Lord of the Rings.

A/N: Thank you for all of the lovely reviews for last chapter!

Translations:

Ada/Adar: Daddy/Dad/Father

Ion-nin: My son

Daelas: Shadowleaf

Here's the meanings of Legolas's siblings' names, created on the Elf Name Generator website:

Aglar: Glorious

Hannel: Intelligent

Megilag: Rapid Sword

Barhad: One Faithful to Home

Bereneth: Bold

Fael: Generous

Responses to Guest reviews: (Is there another way I can respond to you guys?)

To "Guest" 1: Thank you! I still have writers block for my other stuff, I'm afraid. :(

To "Lys": Thanks! I take my OCs very seriously because they are MY characters, and I want them to be deep and thorough. I hate flat, cliché OCs. Each of my OCs (Legolas's siblings, Ciaran, etc.) all have in-depth personalities, characteristics, and backstories that I have written down in my notes.

To "Guest" 2: Thank you!

Please review! All feedback is greatly appreciated.