Disclaimer: Nothing is mine, save the plot and some minor characters.

Rating: PG -13

Summary: In the bloody aftermath of dire mistakes, both father and son choose their own roads to right the wrong. But faced with a mortal vendetta and a resurfacing of a sinister past, can Legolas and Thranduil find redemption before it's too late?

Author's Note: This story contains references to To Love and to Sin, and picks up the thread of Legolas' pilgrimage at the end of From Twilight to Dawn. You can follow my order of posting for maximum effect, but the chronological order is also listed on my bio page.

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By Kasmi Kassim

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Road to Redemption

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Chapter 6: Two Roads

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Elladan watched as Elrohir dusted himself. "The evidence remains, no matter how many times we check. They did not enter Rivendell."

The human tracks stopped at the outskirts of the valley; only Legolas' trails continued into the havens. "What shall we do, Elladan?" Elrohir looked up at his twin. "Shall we enter, or shall we continue our search?"

Elladan frowned. "One simply does not disappear like that," he muttered. "They either managed to hide their tracks extremely well all of a sudden, or dropped dead."

"Even as dead," said Elrohir, "they cannot disappear like this. There must be some remains, even after scavengers have had their share."

"Maybe Legolas brought the remains into Rivendell," said Elladan wryly. "We saw the way he slaughtered the orcs."

Elrohir groaned. "Elladan, let's not get morbid. He wouldn't kill humans as he would kill orcs."

Elladan shrugged. "He healed an orc once, and now he's on an orc massacre."

Elrohir frowned, but raised no dispute.

"Well," said Elladan, breaking the heavy silence, "let's enter first. Ada will want to see us, and they may know something of Legolas."

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Mirkwood bustled with newfound energy as the king returned to his duties. Reports were efficiently made, and so were the responding instructions. The king moved with easy grace, eyes alight with steely sharpness. All was back to normal. At least, that was what the elves dared to hope.

When the reports were finished, however, the king took out a worn parchment from the folds of his robes. "We have a message from the human survivors," he said. The hall fell into tense silence.

"An elf-child is held captive in their hands. They demand fifty elf-maidens in exchange for his life. If we do not comply within a fortnight, he will be executed."

The silence remained frozen still. The king leaned back against his throne.

"I pray you, speak, my lords." Ice blue eyes glittered as he scoured the room in measured calm. "Your king awaits your counsel."

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Elrohir paced around the room. Elladan watched, leaning against a wall.

"So, the men were still after him," muttered Elrohir.

"They probably wanted to attack him from front and back," supplied Elladan. "Glorfindel said they were waiting by the borders."

Elrohir grunted thoughtfully.

"But the men failed thanks to Glorfindel, and Legolas left for home, and then… " Suddenly, Elladan straightened, "they left with him."

"What?" Elrohir looked up.

"That's why their trail ended here," said Elladan, meeting his brother's gaze. "They didn't go any further – they waited for Legolas to leave, and trailed him back to Mirkwood. That's why we didn't see a new trail – they retraced their steps to hunt him on his way back!"

Elrohir's face swiftly took on a calculating look. "Then they must be-"

"Together," concluded Elladan, grabbing his sword from the wall. "Arwen said Legolas came to get her, which means he knew the humans were still hunting him. If any of them reached Mirkwood, we should have run into them by now." Gray eyes met. "He was intercepted."

Elrohir grabbed his quiver of arrows from the table. "Let us go."

Together, the brothers rushed out of the Last Homely House, back into the wilderness.

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"Send the troops, my lord."

"I shall ride as well, my lord."

"Sire, allow me-"

The hall began to fill with a clamor, elves stepping forth and raising their voices, until the king held up a hand. "Do you advise that I send a battalion of warriors to these humans?"

"Mirkwood nurtures skilled warriors, my lord," said the captain of the guard. "A rescue party awaits your command."

"A dangerous choice," muttered a dark-haired advisor, "judging by their demands, these humans are mentally unhinged."

Murmurs and snickers rose, and Thranduil let out a thin smile. "The humans do offer an alternative solution," he said, glancing at the parchment. "The child will be sent back, if the king of elves relinquishes sovereignty over a portion of Mirkwood to the human exiles."

Silence.

The king tilted his head. "The tongue of the wood elves is frank. Speak, my kinsmen; give me your counsel."

The elves looked at one another. Silence stretched on until the dark-haired advisor stepped forth. "We cannot risk the safety of the prince with a rescue party. I suggest we send fifty warrior maidens."

The king squinted at his parchment. "The humans require these maidens to be blinded."

Enraged clamor erupted in the hall. The king raised his hand and silenced the din. "The humans know how precious we deem our children," he said. "What say you, Lord Tembor? The second option promises safety for all."

"Not worth mention, my lord," cut off the advisor. "The humans deserve a good pounding on the head for the sheer stupidity of that proposal."

The king raised his brows. "Nay, you say?"

"My king, you come from very far lands," said Tembor's patient voice. "You and your father were welcomed into the hearts of the people when you relinquished the knowledge and enchantment of your prosperous cousins for the rustic ways of the wood elves." He looked around the silent hall. "The Silvan elves were not overtaken; we had chosen our king. And you, the youngest of us, now stand at the heart of our courage which keeps us strong during these dark times. No, my king, you shall not relinquish a single arm span of your people's land."

There was silence. The king stared wordlessly.

Tembor lowered his gaze. "Since the day you took the throne, darkness has overcome our home, and we were forced to retreat into caves, battle every day for survival, alas – and yet you are hailed as the greatest of kings, and the tongue of the wood elves is frank."

The tension washed off of the hall like a wave. The king looked around. He set his lips in a grim line.

"The king may send you to death to save one child," he said darkly. "He may march you into the fires of Mordor for a fight we cannot win."

His eyes traveled to each advisor, each scribe, each healer and minstrel. "My Silvan kinsmen, you were offered a human alliance against your king. You are free to accept such offers as you will. You are not bound to me by blood, or by oaths of allegiance. If there be an older elf, or wiser, or braver, who can hold the heart of the kingdom better than I – or if you wish to go back to the ways of the Silvan elves before the arrival of the Sindarin kin, speak, and I shall be but a simple warrior fighting amongst you. If you do not – you will remain with a king, who may ask you to march to doom at his whim."

Silence.

The elves' exchanged glances were no longer uneasy. The king looked suddenly very young among them.

"My king," said a soft voice from a corner. It was a dark-haired healer. "You test us with words of deeds that you have never performed, nor ever will. But if you do order us to march into the fires of Mordor, we shall do so, for it is none but your bidding."

The king was still.

Expectant eyes stared up at the king. Tembor glided to the foot of the steps that led to the dais. "We await your command," he said.

With a shuddering sigh, the king slowly closed his eyes. Suddenly, he was weary. So weary.

"Forgive me my foolishness," he murmured. "I am but a simple elf with two roads under my feet. Bid the guards hold, Lord Sadron."

The elves bowed silently, the air entangled in sorrow, as the king exited the hall.

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Back where he lived, there was darkness, but there was also light.

In the midst of the night-black forest, he would run and leap among trees, and slay orcs and spiders. After a long hunt, he would return, worn and wearied by the weight of blood that rested on his hands; and the gates would open before him welcomingly, radiating in the phantasmal glory of the ancient runes, the age-old prayers and whispers and tales about what had been good in this world, what had always remained bright amid the darkness. And his weary heart would be lifted, and a smile would graze his lips as he would stride into the doors that opened for him, enter the halls, and bow to the king who sat upon the throne – and he would talk and laugh and sing while sharing a goblet of wine with his father in the quiet study, watching the dance of the flames of the hearth in the winter, listening to the crickets under the moon in their summer night strolls. And his heart would be at peace.

Such peace had dimmed, cast aside by his own hands.

And yet his heart remembered, and yearned for those times again, the memories of light that shimmered amidst the droning shadows that threatened to overwhelm his soul. The faint golden melodies of yore haunted his clouded mind, singing gentle comfort amid the restless heat of anguish.

"I still can't believe this was the Legolas all along," muttered a guttural voice from his side.

The elf's mind was still floating in a dreamlike haze, blissfully trapped in its own prison, as rustling and scratching noises invaded the silence, and the smell of roasted meat filled the air. Legolas had lost track of time; the flow of time was arrested in the darkness where no light could reach, and in the small space occupied by two men and an elf, time was left to stretch and contract as it wished, and sometimes halt altogether.

"Such a clever young one we have here," muttered another voice, and a soft touch outlined his jaw. "Right under our noses the entire time, and playing us with strings attached."

"Only because you refused to tell us that he was Legolas," retorted the younger voice. "You planned on using the rest of us to seize him, only so that you could snatch him away for yourself."

"Well, one must find some good out of every bad, no?" A light laughter. And coarse fingers were tracing his neck. "It is no wonder that my father was taken with your beauty," whispered the man. "I, like him, find you pleasing to my eyes."

Slowly, rivulets of hair shifted; the young elf's head turned in his direction. Rolof smiled. The elf's gaze was dull and distant. Rolof raised his hand and ran it along the fevered flesh of the youth's cheekbone.

"Look at what the years have done to us..." The elf did not respond as the man proceeded to stroke his face. "I am now a man mid-age, staring down at the rest of the hill of my life...and you are aged but four or five years at best, at the exalting blooming of youth. I am withering, but you have yet to face the pinnacle of your beauty." Fingers stroked a pointed ear. The elf did not move.

"Why did you drug him so strongly, Gama?" growled Rolof, raising his body from the youth. He glowered at the younger man on the mud-spread floor, who was poking at an unrecognizable animal staked above a small fire. Gama shot a glare in Rolof's direction.

"If you are looking to make him more responsive to your sick touches, you are giving me the wrong reason to complain."

Rolof snorted, and turned completely away from the elf. The pale eyes closed wearily.

"I helped capture the elf," growled Rolof. "I do not see why you claim such rights over him."

Gama's gaze flitted upward from the meager flames. "You planned on using us for the possession of that trophy," he growled in a low voice. "The rest of them died!"

"As you had left me to die," retorted Rolof, nearing the fire. "It was your idea to enter the forest and get yourselves killed with ridiculous greed."

Gama pursed his lips, resentment plain in his eyes. Wordlessly he turned, and poked at the meat again.

Rolof gave an exasperated sigh. "You are so full of bitterness, young fool," he muttered, before turning away. "Release your age-old anger and you can start a new life so much happier."

"I have no need of a lecture from a child fancier," snapped Gama.

Rolof only grunted, and neared the elf again. Seeing the eyes closed, he frowned, and placed a hand upon the elf's forehead. "He is hot," he murmured.

"Get your filthy paws off, old man," called Gama, poking at the meat one more time before picking it out of the fire. "I want him unmarred when I return him home. I am a man of my word."

Unheeding, Rolof slid a flinger along the elf's shoulder. "If the king actually sends fifty elves, you mean," he said. "You do not know if the elf-king is a man – or elf – of his word."

Gama tore out a leg from the roasted animal. "We will see, once we go to the appointed meeting spot tomorrow. He does not know where we are, and he can't ambush us with a captive in our hands anyway."

"What if he doesn't respond?"

"Then we will make do with one elf," retorted Gama between mouthfuls. "Do you have any idea how many brothels are cropping up these days? Men would kill for that elf-child."

With a grunt, Rolof detached himself from the elf and withdrew toward the small fire. "I'd better have my share before we sell him," he muttered.

Gama ignored him. "So," he said, turning toward the elf, "do you think a messenger will come to the ruins tomorrow?"

"Do you?" asked Rolof incredulously. "To give up so much for one little elf? Our king wouldn't."

Gama shot the older man an irritated glance. "Our king does not take revenge upon a whole village for the damage of one child either." He turned back to the elf. "Which shall it be, Legolas?" he called. "Send fifty grown elves in exchange for a child captive, or safely give up a portion of his land?"

Legolas did not answer.

Would his father send fifty elves to possible slavery to save him? Or give up a stragetic point of their land, to be overrun with spiders and pronounce possible doom for the kingdom?

Would you, Ada?

He did not know. He knew of his father's love, but also knew well the responsibility that ran parallel in the king's heart. What would he do? Would he sacrifice his people for his son? Or would he sacrifice his son for the people?

He shuddered. He suddenly did not wish to know.

Rolof poked Gama's side with a finger. "I think you drugged him to delirium," he whispered. "I told you to use the sedatives sparingly."

Gama glowered, but did not answer. The two men ate in silence.

Legolas was floating in a world of dreamy haze. Where time came to a standstill, he could return to his childhood, any time of it that he wished – and bask in the sun, the warmth of spring and his father's caresses. The half-delirium through which he floated was easy and yielding. Though he could see little, he came upon an unexpected – and welcoming – sight whichever direction he took. It was pleasant, to empty his racing thoughts and take uncalculating steps forward, and come upon small images of what he had long forgotten. It was almost like a game he used to play with his father long ago, where his father would find bright, secluded spots in the woods and hide small treasures for Legolas to find. When he was finished, he would disappear, and Legolas would hunt from morning to evening, excitement driving his steps forward. His father's small surprises were always – well, surprises. He could never guess what they were, for they were always wildly out of his imagination's reach.

A warmth of happiness embraced him anew as he waded through the memories. Those days were filled with sunlight and laughter. He could see himself, a small child still, running through the woods. He would search and search with what little hints his father had given, and track down the minute clues that his father had dropped along the way. Little did he know at the time how tremendously such games, so innocently enjoyed by both father and child, would shape the young elf into an intuitive, resourceful warrior.

So he would find the treasures that his father had hidden in the most unexpected places; sometimes, it would be a silver spoon in a tiny stream. Sometimes it would be a sweet honey cake – which the king had no doubt taken from the kitchens that very morning – hiding in a cave behind a waterfall. Once it had been a sight that made him gasp with delight; he had come upon a hidden clearing in the midst of the dark woods, where golden sunlight streamed in as if the small patch of green were the center of the very earth itself. And in the center of the clearing was an ancient tree, housing a family of raccoons.

But the highlight of the game, which also signified the end of it, was the greatest treasure – finding his father. The small treasures he found along the way gave hints pointing to the ultimate destination; determined to find his father before dark, Legolas would scuttle about busily, fatigue forgotten, and finally find him waiting at the end of the day-long expedition. Sometimes he would be perched upon a tree, watching him with a smile, or sometimes seated in a small secluded clearing with a halo of sunlight upon his head, looking as beautiful and golden as an ethereal creature of the ancient woods that had existed since the beginning of time. Sometimes he would be found standing on the other side of a rushing river, holding out his arms. And Legolas would pace back and forth, back and forth, and rack his brains to come up with a way to cross the river and get to his father. He learned before long that there was always the option of climbing trees to cross, or pulling fallen logs to construct a sturdy bridge. Once he had shot an arrow with a rope – the rope had been one of his father's hidden treasures for the day, which also hinted at how to reach the final destination – and when the arrow embedded itself into a tree behind his father, he had tied the other end of the rope to a tree behind himself, and walked on it across the river as his father watched on with a twinkle in his eyes. When at last he ran into his father's arms and scampered up his shoulder, the game would be over, and they would return home together under the setting sun, or sometimes, under the evening stars.

Of course, there were always unexpected occurrences. Once, his father made the mistake of hiding Legolas' pillow and blankets under a berry bush; when the child found it, he curled up with sudden fatigue and fell asleep, and did not wake until next morning in his bed, wondering when his father had brought him home.

His father's tactics became more difficult as the years wore on, and Legolas was faced with vexing puzzles and tiring exertions that left him exhausted by the time he found his smiling father. And then he would fall asleep promptly in his father's arms, too tired to climb up onto his shoulder; and his father would carry him home, into his rooms – and remain seated by the window, holding him still lest he woke, a silent shadow in the hush of evening.

Yes, his father was king – but when Legolas was still very small, the shadows had not grown to such extent that it darkened the forest of his home like a starless night. And his father would play with him often; he would sit down in a chair and read as the child snuggled to bed, and he would brush his hair and bathe him at night, or wake him up in the morning with soft, gentle kisses that made him smile with groggy eyes. His scent would always be present, enveloping him in familiar warmth that smelled of strong arms, and a gentle tenor voice.

His father had been angry at him, once. Legolas had wandered far out into the dark parts of the woods while neglecting to tell anyone, for he was too excited to explore; and it was not until much later, faced with a family of spiders, that he heard palace guards' alarm calls. When he raised a shrill distress whistle, the first arrow that embedded itself in a charging spider had been from his father's great black bow. And before he could blink, he had been scooped up onto a galloping steed, held securely in his father's arms, as dazzling flashes of blades danced in the air. And the scolding back at the palace was so severe that he had fallen asleep with tears in his eyes – and when he awoke next morning, his father had been seated next to his bed, stroking his head over and over again, ever silent.

"Gama! Do you really think a messenger will come?"

A faint voice invaded the fog, but dissipated; he was once again falling, drowning in peaceful dreams. And while he laughed and ran among the dancing sunlight of his green woods, he knew that he would never again be able to return to those days.

"Don't die, Legolas," breathed a whisper, and a dark shadow loomed over his bright memories. Legolas turned away – he was tired, and he wanted to lie in his father's arms and sleep.

Back where he lived, there was darkness, but there was also light.

But here, in the darkness where time stretched and stopped, there was no light.

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To Be Continued