This is the last chapter. Thank you to all my reviewers, especially Nina Vale, and to my Beta Buffintruda.

Chapter Seven

Ever Brighter

He led his people away, through the ruin and the fighting. The main battle was up on Ravenhill now, and he could see off in the distance the fighters up there.

When the Silvan elves were safely out of harm's way, he ordered Feren to take a census of who had survived, heal the wounded, and prepare for the march home.

"Where are you going, my lord?" Feren called out as Thranduil turned to leave.

"To Ravenhill," he answered. "I must find my son."

By the time he reached the hill, the fight was over. He saw the halfling weeping over Oakenshield's body, and the broken remains of Azog the Defiler. He looked on the ground, his heart in his throat, for the body of Legolas among the fallen orcs. There had been a massacre here. In his heart he knew the line of Durin had perished this day, and perhaps Legolas along with it, for all of his fighting prowess. There was only darkness around Thranduil now, darkness and no light.

He heard the faint sound of soft weeping. Tauriel. So she, at least, had survived. He walked toward the noise.

Before he reached the sunlit outcropping where she lay, he heard footsteps. He looked up, and relief washed over him as he realized it was Legolas, walking unscathed.

He stared at his son, unable to say anything.

"I...cannot go back," Legolas said quietly. Thranduil felt a brief, searing pain in his heart as he took those words in, but he knew they were true. Legolas had seen much in these past few days, much that needed answers Thranduil could not give. He needed to see the world for himself, and come to his own conclusions. Thranduil knew that.

"Where will you go?" he asked softly, not protesting. He would not begrudge his son this need, for all he would miss his little leaf with all his heart.

"I do not know," Legolas admitted.

Thranduil could help his son there, at least. Around twenty years ago, he had gone north, visiting the Dúnedain on a political errand, and he had met with their leader and his young son. "Go north," he suggested. "Find the Dúnedain. There is a young ranger amongst them. You should meet him." He had been only a child then, but Estel had shown the hope found in his name in his gleaming eyes. "His father, Arathorn, was a good man. His son might grow to be a great one."

"What is his name?" Legolas asked.

"He is known in the wild as Strider." This he had learned by messenger from Elrond in the west, after the young man, Aragorn, had left Imladris to seek his fortune. "His true name...you must discover for yourself." Thranduil knew it, but he had to set Legolas some task, no matter how small.

Legolas nodded and began to walk off. Thranduil could not let it lie there. He had to say goodbye somehow. He had show the love inside him, the love no one else seemed to see.

"Legolas," he called softly. His son turned, looking at him with blue, blue eyes, the color not darker like his own, but brighter and softer like his mother.

His mother. Thranduil never spoke of Calien. He had not said her name in two thousand years. But he spoke of her now.

"Your mother loved you, Legolas," he murmured, pushing back tears welling up in his eyes. "More than anything. More than life."

He extended his hand in an elvish gesture of love and greeting and farewell. Legolas waved to him as well, but his motions fell apart in his emotion. Thranduil half-hoped he would come back, that they would cry together and return to the forest, but he did not. He turned and left, leaving his father all alone in the dark.

Tauriel's soft weeping could still be heard. Pushing back his tears, he walked out to face her. He desired no longer to push her away for her disobedience, but to bring her back to the forest, where she belonged. Where they could both find peace.

"They want to bury him," she said as he walked closer to her.

"Yes," he said quietly, taking in the scenario. She was bent over the bloodstained body of the dwarf, pain as deep as his when he had lost Calien showing in her eyes.

"If this is love, I do not want it," she cried out in anguish. "Take it from me, please!"

Thranduil only stared. He did not have that power, nor would he use it if he did. Love was harsh, it was painful, but it could be warm, and soft, and the most wonderful thing in all of Arda. Love was what made all the peoples of Middle-earth people, it distinguished them from malice that spawned from Morgoth and Sauron and their servants.

"Why does it hurt so much?" Tauriel sobbed, clutching the dwarf's hand, her voice cracking.

And then Thranduil saw light again. His mind flashed back to Calien's death, when he had sobbed upon the broken ground. He had not had even a cold, lifeless body to clutch. He felt that deep sadness, a stain upon his soul, and he could sense it now in Tauriel.

She had been wrong about him—but he had been wrong about her, too. She had not loved Legolas, as he had assumed; or at least, she had not loved him romantically. Her love for the dwarf was just as real and strong as his was for Calien.

"Because it was real," he answered her, his voice as soft as a whisper.

She looked up at him, relief and acceptance flooding her eyes with unshed tears, and he forgave her all. She had only acted in love, just as he had.

Tauriel leaned down and kissed the dwarf on his lips, and Thranduil stepped away, not wanting to intrude on this intensely private moment.

Thranduil sent Feren and the majority of his people back to the forest as soon as the wounded had been healed and the dead buried. He and a small escort stayed behind for the funeral of Thorin Oakenshield and his nephews Fíli and Kíli, the latter being Tauriel's dwarf love.

The halfling came to him the day before the funeral. Thranduil was surprised to see him, but welcomed him. He had no grudge against such a fine hobbit as Bilbo Baggins.

"Your Majesty," the halfling said, nodding to him. "I'm leaving soon, and...well, I thought, seeing as I don't have any use for it, you might like your necklace back. I'm sorry the dwarves had to keep it so long."

He pulled a long chain draped in glittering gems full of starlight, and Thranduil's breath caught in his throat. It was Calien's necklace. He broke into a smile, tears budding in his eyes. He reached out a hand and took it from the generous hobbit, who looked up at him with a wavering smile.

"I cannot thank you enough, Master Baggins," he told Bilbo with heartfelt gratitude. "This necklace...the jewels were my wife's."

"She'll be glad to have it back, then!" he said cheerily.

Thranduil glanced down in sorrow. "I will be glad to have a memory of her."

He covered his mouth in horror, realizing what he had said. "Your Majesty, I'm sorry—"

"There is nothing to apologize for. You spoke only from your heart," Thranduil said, brushing it aside. He draped the necklace over his own neck. "I thank you again, and I name you an elf-friend, if you have not been named so already. If you are ever passing the Greenwood, you are welcome to visit my halls."

Bilbo smiled at him and ducked his head, then walked away. Thranduil drew the necklace out in front of him and smiled at the jewels. "I remember the starlight," he whispered. "I remember the moon, that night...I remember. This will be my light now that Legolas is gone. Though he will return, and it will grow ever brighter."

Ever brighter. Thranduil blinked back tears, holding to the memories of his wife. He would see her again, he knew, when his time came to sail to Valinor, and she would be re-embodied. But until then this was his light.

And now in the halls of Erebor he spoke her name, the name he had not dared utter for two thousand years:

"Calien."

Ever brighter.