(A/N: Just a quick note about this story: I fell in love with the LOTR books first, and they will always influence my writing. However, I adore the movies too, and I actually really, really loved Tauriel's character in the Hobbit. I love it when authors take creative liberties, and these movies are no exception. I'm not a stickler for either book or movie, but a lot of the backstory and further happenings will be based off the books. I guess it will be a mix of both! That said, most of the characters will hold true to their movie-selves.

Now, without further ado . . . Enjoy!)

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The journey home from Gondor was a long one.

Traveling was normally a speedy process, but Legolas had much to think about. His thoughts captivated him as the plains and lakes and mountains rolled by.

He thought of the hobbits who had recently set off toward the Shire. They deserved to go back home, more than anyone, and they deserved to have their happy endings. He had overheard Sam speaking of a Rosie Cotton, and he had wished them the best of luck together. Pippin had expressed no greater joy than to sit down at the Green Dragon for a drink, and maybe a party. Legolas had to laugh. Hobbits, he wondered, how could they stay ever so merry . . . despite the horrors they had faced?

Aragorn's coronation and wedding had been beautiful. All the traditions of Elves and Men had been honored, and Elrond was given the chance to say farewell and give his blessing to his beloved daughter and son. Faramir was made Captain of the Guard and Advisor to the King, and Eowyn and Arwen became fast friends.

Legolas smiled as he remembered the almost-heartfelt conversation between himself and Aragorn, as the man had attempted to express his never-ending gratitude but ended up asking Legolas if he would like to be the godfather to any children Aragorn might have. Of course, Legolas said he would be honored. Aragorn had smiled, brushed away a stray tear, then cleared his throat and presented the Elf with a brooch, which displayed the White Tree of Gondor in intricate, swirling silver. The two had embraced, and Legolas swore to aid Gondor if ever Aragorn or any of his descendants called upon the Woodland Realm.

Perhaps the strangest and most heartfelt of goodbyes had belonged to Gimli, who just thirteen months prior had been Legolas' sworn rival, but had weaseled his way into the Elf's heart. Legolas now counted him as kin. The two of them had taken their leave of Minas Tirith together after Aragorn's coronation, traveling back to Helm's Deep to see the Glittering Caves, then to Fangorn Forest to explore its captivating depth. Finally, they returned to Gondor to witness the marriage of Faramir and Eowyn. There they had to say farewell. If you are ever in need of assistance, Gimli had grumbled, the walls of Erebor are strong and fast. Our doors will always be open to you and your people.

Legolas had replied: Master Dwarf, likewise, you and your kin are always welcome in the Woodland Realm. I will show you all the beauty of my kingdom if you wish. Gimli had nodded, and the two had clasped arms as brothers, then parted ways.

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He had not been home in sixty-one years. Indeed, that was merely a blink in his long life, but his days had seemed long and sometimes lonely. The great battle for Erebor had been the last time he had seen his father, and he had finally decided to return. With the defeat of Sauron, Legolas had received word that the darkness had been lifted from his homeland, which the Men and Dwarves called Mirkwood. His father had sent a company of Elves to Gondor, following Sauron's defeat, to bring well-wishes and gifts to the new King. Little did Thranduil know that his son was among those fighting for freedom.

Now, the people of Mirkwood followed their Prince home, riding lightly and conversing merrily behind him. But Legolas did not feel the joy he thought he should have. His heart was darkened with the realization that his father had not seen him off in good spirits, those sixty-one years ago. They had argued, but what for? The tension that surrounded father and son in the single moment of harsh words and hurtful sentiment seemed petty now. There were more important matters to consider. They had both suffered the loss of a loved one: the Queen of Mirkwood, Thranduil's one love, and Legolas' dear mother. She had fallen in battle in Gundabad, hardly two hundred years ago. The King had never healed, and neither had his son. Neither spoke of the loss.

Legolas hoped, beyond hope, that his father would forgive him for not returning. He hoped that Thranduil would see reason: that the Prince needed space to breathe, outside of the walls of his realm . . . away from the one person he would have died for. His thoughts wandered to . . . her. He wondered how Tauriel fared. Would Thranduil remove her banishment and allow her to prove herself once more? The King had never seen the purpose in second chances. Would Tauriel have died of a broken heart, as many Elves had before her? Her bond to that Dwarf, Kili, had been nothing more than momentary infatuation, as far as Legolas was concerned. How could she have pledged herself to a mortal, a Dwarf no less, after hardly three days in his company? It was absurd . . . But who was he to judge her heart?

So many questions pestered his mind, that he scarcely noticed the sun dipping further toward the horizon.

"My Prince," someone called, startling Legolas out of his own thoughts.

"Yes, Fandir." He turned to the Elf riding to his left.

"The sun sets, your Highness. Our horses must eat, drink, and rest very soon."

The company found a grassy alcove between a lake and the base of a steep, rocky cliff, where they let the horses graze. The Elves set up a tent, though none of them were fatigued enough to sleep. So they sat sprawled on the grass, quietly sharing songs and poems, watching the sun fire its beams of orange and pink across the dusky sky. Fandir offered Legolas a piece of Lembas and wine, and everyone ate a single bite of the rich bread, but they drank enough to put Dwarves to shame. Then they lay back, gazing at the stars and telling stories of ancient kings until the sun made its appearance again, across the lake. Legolas breathed deeply and smiled.

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It was late afternoon on the seventeenth day of travel when the Elves reached their homeland. They instantly brightened, feeling comfortable under the canopy of budding leaves and twisting vines. The sickness that had plagued the forest for nearly a hundred years, they said, had finally lifted after Sauron's defeat. The sun cast its sparkling rays through every crevice, and it seemed as if the ground had never seen daylight before. Birds chirped, rabbits kicked their feet and hid under hollowed logs, and every Elf wore a bright smile. But Legolas couldn't stop the rush of slight terror as the palace gates flew open to welcome the travelers home.

"My lord, Legolas!" a tall, bright-eyed Elf cried, jumping down from the hidden, vine-covered battlements.

"Brother!" The Prince circled his horse around and handed the reins to a guard, then ran swiftly to meet his friend. "Nirdor, mellon nin!" They laughed and embraced, hardly hearing the other's words of welcome. Legolas clasped Nirdor's forearms and said, "How good to see you again."

Nirdor smiled and bowed his head in agreement. He was second in command under Tauriel, and he was Legolas's oldest friend. His mother had served as the Queen's personal advisor, and he and the Prince were of similar ages. As Legolas had no brothers or sisters of his own, Nirdor served as a play-mate in their very young years, and later as a companion and confidant for the lonely Prince. They were fast friends, who counted each other as a brother.

"I am glad you have returned, finally," Nirdor said. "I won't say we didn't worry for you."

Legolas smiled, and the pair began to climb the vast staircase that led up through trees and stone, toward the king's chambers. "I have stories to tell you. But they must wait." He removed his traveling cloak and folded it over his arm. "Much has changed since the battle for Erebor, and I must speak to my father." He came to a halt at a great, high door. It looked as if it were woven from fresh, spring branches, never having succumbed to the decay of the natural world.

"Then I will leave you now. Meet me in the courtyard when you are finished." Nirdor placed a fist over his heart. "Good luck." He smiled and walked swiftly away.

Legolas took a deep breath. He rapped three times on the door, and the sound ricocheted through the halls. The king answered . . . Legolas entered slowly, head down. The door closed behind him. Three steps in, and he stopped. He drew a breath to speak, but the words had scarcely crossed his lips when he was enveloped by two familiar arms.

"My son," Thranduil said, releasing the shocked prince and stepping backward. "My son, you are—" his voice broke.

"Father, I am sorry." Legolas took the chance to recite the speech he had played over and over in his mind for seventeen days. "I should not have run away from my duties, and I am offering you my service once more as a humble—"

Thranduil stopped him mid-sentence. "You owe me no apology, Legolas."

That was all he needed to hear. Legolas gazed up into his father's bright eyes and rested a forearm across his own chest in a salute.

"You are safe," the king continued, "and you have returned home. That is all . . . All a father's heart could wish for." He gave another smile, the kind that at first seemed pained, but Legolas wondered how long it had been since Thranduil really showed him true affection. Those smiles were few, and far between. Perhaps not since his mother had passed away, Legolas thought, had he seen such an action from the Elvenking.

Without warning, the door directly behind the pair slammed open, and Legolas heard a faint cry of shock. "My lords, excuse me for interrupting, I—"

"Nonsense, Tauriel." Thranduil swept past his son, who seemed frozen to the ground. "I was just on my way to speak with Nirdor. Please excuse me."

"Of course," she murmured.

The hall went deadly silent as Legolas spun on his heel to face her.

She looked different than he remembered, and Legolas prided himself on his memory. Songs and poems came easily to him, and even after all these years could he remember the way his mother's eyes shone while she laughed. He had no trouble recalling words from more than five languages, and even the few lessons in Quenya his tutor had attempted to give him had lingered long enough that conversations were possible in the ancient language. But the Elf standing before him . . . His memory failed him. For she was a thousand times more beautiful than he recalled. She held her bow loosely in one hand, and the train of her silvery green cloak lightly brushed the wooden floor. Time froze, and for a moment Legolas was a love-struck youth again, watching in awe as his father recruited one of the youngest, most fragile maidens for his army.

"Welcome home, my Prince," Tauriel said, bowing her head and crossing an arm over her chest. Then she looked up, caught his bright gaze, and swiftly turned around, practically flying down the hall in her haste.

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