Disclaimer: Don't own LOTR

Thanks so much for your reviews! I love reading them. Despite the similar titles, this story has a very different theme from the last one. It looks at the possiblity of less noble intentions in an elf who is often depicted as nearly flawless. Still in character, just...troubled. Enjoy!

Another Father's Son – Elrond will protect his family at any cost.

Rating: K+

Characters: Elrond, Gandalf, Legolas (minor)

"And what of the elves? Whom shall you send to represent your own people?" asked Gandalf. He sat in front of a desk covered in books and parchment, while Elrond stared out past his balcony, not really seeing anything. More than anything in the world the elf lord dreaded this. It had been simple enough to think about the men and dwarves, to send those he barely knew on what was likely their last mission, but this…he had tried to answer this question from the very moment he had decided that the ring needed to be destroyed.

He did not answer Gandalf, but desperately searched one last time for a different answer. He was acquainted with many great elves; sindar, noldor, and silvan. Any number of them would do for this task. Surely someone powerful, like Lord Glorfindel, should go.

Gandalf spoke as though he had read Elrond's mind, although there was too much respect between the pair of them for him to do so out of turn. "It can't be Glorfindel, or anyone like him. He is too recognizable, and Aragorn has too much respect for him. You know Aragorn must lead the party, and it will ruin him if he has anyone along to whom he can defer judgment – at least, besides myself."

Someone wise, then, like Erestor.

"They should have a stout heart, though, and perhaps not so much knowledge," continued Gandalf. "A warrior, not a scholar. A scholar would be wise enough to run. Of course we do not want a fool, either."

Lanthiron? He was an ancient sindar, one of Thranduil's folk who had served with Oropher. He had seen many, many things in his long life that might aid the ringbearer.

"No one too old; it might intimidate Aragorn, as I suggested before. More importantly, they have seen too much. They could very well drag down the company, set as they are in their ways. Many do not like dwarves or men, and I do not think they will give any new thought to their being companions."

Losgon, a silvan of Lothlorien. Quick, young, brave…

"Someone who speaks the common tongue very well. I do not want any breakdowns because of miscommunication."

Haldir. Young, brave, fluent in Westron, neither fool nor scholar, no one of terrible power or real note…

Gandalf drew thoughtfully on his pipe. "You know, despite what I said about renowned warriors, I believe it might be best if they were from a noble house. Most of the other members are, and it would help to solidify relations between the different races if they were on equal footing. No one particularly great, of course, but perhaps someone's child."

Elrond closed his eyes and squeezed the railing until his knuckles were white. Yes, he had already had this conversation with himself many times. Every name that came to his head, ruled out for one reason or another. The truth was it could not be just anyone on the quest. Of all his many acquaintances, there were few who truly possessed all of these qualities in great amounts. Oh, he knew who did. In fact, they had been his first thoughts of who to send. Who better, after all, than one of his own sons?

Elladan or Elrohir. Powerful, but not enough to draw attention. Wise, but foolish enough to face battle without fear. Young; oh so very, very young. Had he not held them in his arms but yesterday? Had they not just learned their first words? No, they knew them all, and in many languages. They were not just the sons of a lord, but Aragorn's brothers, as well. Either one would support him without overshadowing his leadership, either one would walk to the very fires of Mt. Doom and throw themselves at Sauron's armies for the sake of the quest, taking hundreds of orcs out with them. Neither one would ever return, and he knew very well if he lost one he would lose the other.

Elrond held onto the railing as if he was about to fall. He opened his eyes and drew in a breath, preparing to send his sons to their deaths. A gasp of air left his mouth, but no words followed.

He couldn't do it. He could not. Elrond shut his eyes again to let a few frustrated tears fall. He had not cried since his wife died. His wife – what would he say to Celebrían? Even in Valinor, for him come to missing either sons or daughter would surely break her heart beyond repair. If Aragorn survived, Arwen was already lost, and he could not imagine losing all of his children. No. His family had suffered enough. There had to be a reason, had to be another way.

He looked up to the heavens, all too aware of Gandalf's patient stare. Above Earendil shone bright as ever, and Elrond prayed. Please. I have never asked for much, I have done everything you asked, handled every single blow that the Valar have sent. This once, spare my sons! The star twinkled, and with a sigh Elrond looked back at the ground.

He blinked. There was someone in the gardens below, dancing, but he could not tell who because their immortal light burned so brightly. Elrond nearly choked on his breath in elation. For just a moment, an incalculable relief flowed through him. Here was his answer, a reason his sons could not be part of the Fellowship! That immortal light attracted enemies, and while it could certainly be dampened for the sake of secrecy it could also be amplified, perhaps if one wished to provide a little hope to companions, or a more tangible hope in the form of a diversion. Any elf on the Fellowship should be willing to make that sacrifice, to amplify their light so as to give the others more time.

It would not, could not be his sons, then. His sons were part human, after all, so they did not glow the way this dancer did, or any other full blooded elf. Oh, his beloved sons; Arwen was already lost, perhaps, but now he could keep his sons. Neither would meet their fate in that kingdom of ash, miles away from their beautiful valley.

At last he could speak. "We need someone who has a strong light, someone who might distract enemies."

Behind him, Gandalf nodded. "Yes." He gave no indication as to whether or not he knew this was Elrond's last gambit, and if he did the wizard would keep his peace.

Elrond had to turn away from the garden for a moment, because the light had caught on something and sent it into his eyes. He squinted, surprised that a dancer would wear anything large enough to have such a strong reflection.

The air went out of him again, and another cold wave of despair quenched his elation. There in the garden below was not a carefree dancer, but Mirkwood's warrior prince, practicing with his knives. Like Glorfindel, like Erestor, like Lanthiron, Losgon, Haldir, Elladan, Elrohir, and so many others, Legolas was one who had volunteered for the Fellowship. Legolas, who had traveled as an emissary to Imladris so many times, and was such a good friend to the twins and Aragorn. Legolas, who yearned only to bring peace to his beloved woods and to be a good son to Thranduil.

Elrond had forgotten, in all his fear for his own children, that if they were not chosen he would have to send another father's son. How could he be so selfish, as to tear away another elf's child? He knew perfectly well that they would not be coming back. He had panicked himself so that he already felt the loss of his children; how could he condemn another father to something so…

"I think we should send Legolas." The words were out of his mouth before he could stop them. Despite all his good intentions, his mind was screaming: yes, take Legolas, take Legolas! Take Thranduil's son, and leave mine alone!

But how could he not send this child? Legolas. Power in bow and song and tree, but not well known beyond his home. Wise in the ways of the wood, but certainly no scholar. Young, younger than any of his own children. Fair-spoken, in Westron, Sindarin, and Silvan. The last born son of Mirkwood's elvenking, a prince who rarely acknowledged his own status.

Legolas parried and spun on an invisible enemy, his body sending off a light that would call enemies a thousand miles away even though it brought fresh hope and joy into the hearts of those who looked upon him. He burned, this king's son, he burned with a light that was stronger than many other elves.

And this would save his sons. For if Legolas did not go, who else was there?

Elrond turned slowly back to Gandalf. He could not look at the prince while he pronounced this latest verdict. "Yes. Legolas will represent the elves."

The wizard mulled this over for a moment, and then agreed.

Selfish it might have been, but in the end Elrond could not find it in his heart to regret. Of course his sons could have gone, and done well, but he wanted them to be safe. Legolas had a place in his heart, but he was not Elrond's son. For once, this doom would not fall upon the house of Elrond. It would fall upon Thranduil's.