So I had a very sweet comment on the previous chapter (can't remember if it was on here or Ao3) that mentioned how much they loved the cute, happy, fluffy story.

Yeah, this chapter...this chapter is not cute, happy, or fluffy. It's...ah, it's actually rather terrible. SORRY! But look, canon is canon, and if you're following canon, some things just got to happen, okay?!

So here's chapter two of this disaster. Enjoy the trauma.

Thicker Than Water (But No Less Bloody)

There were orcs all around them.

Massive, berserker orcs from Gundabad.

Legolas had never seen their like, not in all his years of war.

They were hopelessly outnumbered, and his people's blood already stained the forest floor. The Trees were screaming, at them, at the orcs, their beautiful song corrupted into something unrecognizable.

He'd lost sight of his mother.

Where was she?

It was such an ordinary day.

They had been riding to Dale to renew their trade agreements with the King.

Nana would be in charge of the negotiations, as she usually was. Ada would be there to sign the finished treaty. Legolas would be their protection, and then they would spend a few days in Erebor before returning home.

But it was no simple matter to travel to the prosperous city of men. Not anymore. The elves had to ride south to reach it, and spawn of Shelob had infested the most distant segments of the woods. They crept farther north every day. Orcs roamed once-safe roads and killed at will, and there was a power in Dol Guldur that they dared not call by name.

They did not have a Ring of Power, not like Elrond, Galadriel, and Cirdan.

Their realm was kept safe by the blood and tears of their people and nothing more.

So while Thranduil, his advisors, and his guards traveled a bit more slowly, Legolas and his mother took a troop of archers to scout the road ahead.

The trees had given no warning.

They had been completely blindsided by the attack.

Nana.

Where was she?

They had been separated when the trap had been sprung. The orcs had been lying in wait along the road—a road that had, until today, been perfectly safe—and they had gone straight for the Queen.

The leader of this particular pack was one that Legolas happened to recognize—Azog the Defiler. Legolas had run into him before, though usually he was only seen to very far south, nearest Dol Guldur. He was obnoxiously difficult to kill. Usually, his lackeys were the usual type of orc: lots of muscle and teeth and very little brains.

But this lot he'd brought with him this time…

They were massive, for starters. And they were smart. They were watching the elves, learning as the battle progressed how best to avoid their weapons. They were strong, and they were steeped in darkness.

Legolas's warriors were outnumbered.

They were falling and dying and iron boots trod cruelly over their bodies.

And Legolas could not find his mother.

The battle was not going well.

Nestarion fell with a great cry of pain and Vehiron and Randiriel leaped over him, teeth bared in their fury as they tried to protect their friend. But Randiriel was already limping badly on her left leg, and while Vehiron was not slowing down in the slightest, there was a gruesome wound in his back. They fought fiercely, but there were simply too many enemies, and Legolas screamed in rage as he saw both of his friends fall.

Legolas had lost one of his knives some time ago, and already had a cut in his thigh and an arrow in the back of his shoulder. There was another wicked slice across the front of his ribs from a little goblin he hadn't seen until it was too late. He was tired and in pain and woozy from both blood-loss and whatever had been coating the orcs' weapons.

As such, he wasn't terribly surprised when one strong blow to his wounded leg was enough to bring him down. Of course he tried to get up, but there were still so many orcs surrounding him that at last he was fully subdued.

He glared at them, struggling and spitting curses in his own tongue, fighting to get free. He could see that there were still a few of his people fighting, but they were weary and wounded, and he knew they could not win this battle.

He heard a desperate shout of pained anger and saw Narylfiel reel backwards, arm clamped over her left side, scarlet blood quickly staining her tunic. She threw herself forward and took the head off the orc that had wounded her, and Taegalad leaped to her side, shoving his sister behind him and shouting something over his shoulder as he shielded her from four more orcs. Her face twisted in helpless grief and anger and then she turned, taking to the trees. Relief flooded through Legolas's heart. They were not far ahead of the main company, and with any luck, reinforcements should be here very soon.

Then Azog let out a monstrous cry of victory, and Legolas's heart stopped.

He knew.

Even before he saw, he knew that Azog had found his mother.

He slowly turned his head, feeling every heartbeat as a century, every second as an age.

Alassiel, Queen of Greenwood the Great, was on her knees, one of Azog's filthy hands tangled in her golden curls. There was a deep gash carved up the left side of her face, her right arm was clearly broken and dangling from a dislocated shoulder, and her left hand had been cut off. The forest floor around her was carpeted with dead orcs, but at last the sheer number had overwhelmed her.

Her dual knives had been torn from her grasp and thrown far beyond her reach. Her bow lay in splinters on the ground, her arrows snapped in half. Her blood slowly spread a horrifying scarlet stain across her green tunic and leather cuirass, streaming from a gruesome wound in her stomach. The stump of her left arm was pressed against the gash in an attempt to stem the blood flow.

The battlefield went utterly still, the orcs laughing in delight as the very, very few surviving elves stared in horror at their captured Queen.

But Alassiel did not cower before her captor.

No, she did not even look at him. Her back was straight and she held her head high.

Her flashing silver eyes, shimmering with all of her life and love and power, met her son's.

"Tell your father that I love him," she said hoarsely. She smiled, small and sad but so very full of love. "And do not ever forget how much I love you, my son."

"No…" he whispered, but it was too late.

Azog's hideous weapon rose and fell before Legolas could do more than tug on his captors' arms.

A horrible, choked gasp seemed to echo in the air as the cruel metal tore deep through Alassiel's back and out through her chest. Azog jerked the weapon free and the she-elf began to fall sideways.

Legolas didn't remember breaking free of the orcs holding him but suddenly he was beside her, catching her slender form as she fell, cradling her and tipping her head back until their eyes met, pleading, begging, praying to Valar that weren't listening for her to stay, hold on, hold on.

But there was a horrible paleness seeping into her face and her blood watered the earth beneath them.

"Remember me," she choked out, scarlet blood staining her teeth. "But do not…forget what…you still…have. Do not…lose yourself! Promise me!"

"I promise," he whispered, tears blurring his sight.

Her vibrant silver orbs welled up with tears of her own as she tried to smile at him.

"So sorry," she managed to whisper. "I…love you. I love…I…"

"I know." He bent and kissed her forehead, rocking her back and forth. "I know, Nana. I love you, too. I love you. I'll tell Adar, I promise."

Her eyes never left his as they slowly dulled and unfocused, staring through him, not seeing him or the sky above him or anything else ever again.

Something bright and warm and beautiful and laughing and loving that had always been in his mind went cold and silent.

Thus did Alassiel, bride of Thranduil, mother of Legolas, Queen of the mighty Woodland Realm, pass from the circles of the mortal world.

There was an unearthly howl of wretched grief and rage and loss and it took Legolas a long few moments to realize it was coming from him.

But he did not care.

Azog burst into cruel, mocking laughter.

He said something in Black Speech, but Legolas could not hear him. His fury and pain were swirling through him, pounding in his ears until all he could hear was his own heartbeat.

He did not recall reaching for his mother's white knives, but they were suddenly in his hands and he was moving, throwing himself at Azog with all of his strength.

He drove the mighty orc back before him, all of his grief honing in on this creature, this being who had stolen his mother from him.

He lost all sense of time or place.

He dimly felt something strike his back, Azog's blade swipe across his chest, another blow connect with his face, but he could not really feel it.

Nothing mattered anymore except bringing this monster down.

But he was wounded and alone and exhausted and at last he made a mistake. Azog's mace crashed into his leg, and the snap of the bone seemed to echo in Legolas's ears. He crashed to his knees and then there was a tearing pain in his abdomen. He blinked down at the blade buried in his stomach, could feel it jutting out his back, and he felt her knives slip from his hands and his failure tear at his heart.

Azog ripped the weapon free and raised it over his head.

Legolas blinked up at him, wondering when it had begun to rain.

The gentle drops of water washed away the blood streaming down his face from an injury he could not recall, and it hid his tears as he found his gaze captured by his mother's glassy eyes.

Azog's blade began to fall and Legolas closed his eyes.

But it never connected.

There was a horn blowing, and the trees were wailing and Taegalad was screaming, really screaming, and then there was running and hoofbeats and broken cries of grief from elven voices, but Legolas could not find the strength to open his eyes. He felt his body began to fall, but he did not strike the ground.

Strong arms caught and cradled him, and a familiar voice, choked with tears, babbled into his ears.

"Oh, ion-nin, my precious son, stay with me. Open your eyes, Greenleaf. Open your eyes for me, Legolas. Oh, Alassiel…" the voice broke and a choked wail of agony escaped before it came back. "Please, Little Leaf, please my son, come back to me. Wake up. Open your eyes. Legolas!"

The voice grew farther and farther away, and Legolas did not fight the darkness sweeping over him.

Nothing could hurt more than the memory of his mother's life fading before his eyes and being utterly helpless to stop it.

Against all odds, Legolas woke up.

The birds were singing softly, but their voices sounded full of grief, and the song of the trees was mournful.

"Legolas?" his father's voice was weak and trembling and Legolas could not even turn his head to face him.

"Ada?" he whispered, his voice rough and broken. "I cannot…Ada, I cannot see…"

"Peace, tithen las." His father's gentle hand carded through his hair. "There are bandages over your eyes. Your right eye was…" his voice faltered and cut off and Legolas felt something heavy sink into his stomach.

"Oh," he said softly.

He was about to ask what had happened when he remembered and instantly wished he hadn't.

"Nana," he whispered, grief choking him.

"Oh, ion-nin," Thranduil said hoarsely, gripping Legolas's hand tight. "I am sorry. I am so sorry, Greenleaf."

Legolas shook with helpless sobs. His entire body lit with agony, but none were worse than the horrible stabbing pain in his abdomen and the burning of the salt of his tears in the ruin of his right eye. His father brought his hand to his mouth and pressed kisses to it, unable to even cradle his child for all his wounds.

They wept together for a long time.

Many weeks passed before Legolas could even sit up straight in bed, and that only with numerous pillows piled behind him to support him. He could not stand, could not feed himself, and often suffered splitting migraines originating in his ruined eye.

His muscles were weak and atrophied from how long he'd been in bed. He had been unconscious, wavering on the brink of death, for nearly four and a half months. Recovery would be no easy process. It would take time, perhaps even years, of painful, hard work.

But his father needed him and he needed his father, so he pushed through it.

He completed the exercises the healers gave him with no complaints, gritting his teeth through the pain. In time, his various wounds healed, and he learned just how badly he had been injured when he finally convinced Raunion, their main healer, to give him a list. The older ellon made him sit down before he started.

He'd known about the first arrow wound to the back of his shoulder, but he hadn't known about the second that struck his flank. He had no idea how he'd missed Azog nearly cleaving him in half from stomach to shoulder across his ribcage, nor how he hadn't noticed when the orc's blade neatly slashed his face open from forehead to jaw, slicing straight through his eye. There was another cut across his back from one of Azog's minions and deep claw wounds were littered across both of his upper arms. His femur had been shattered into half a dozen pieces by Azog's mace and several small bones in his hands and feet had been broken. Not to mention the stab wound through the right side of his stomach.

Raunion had told him that it was nothing short of a miracle that he'd survived at all. Had Azog's blade been as little as two inches to the left, he would not have. Somehow, the Gundabad orc had managed to miss all of his organs and merely punctured muscle and tissue.

The day he took his first steps, still blind and leaning heavily on a cane, his father had been there to catch him when he stumbled and pull him close, holding him as tightly as he could and brushing a thousand little kisses into his hair. Legolas had curled into the embrace and cried, because he was over three thousand years old and he had just lost his mother and he was blind and he was having to learn how to walk again.

Finally, the bandages over his eyes came off.

He could not see out of either of them, which sent him into a severe panic, only assuaged when Raunion physically pinned him down on the bed, keeping his hands from clawing at his eyes and loudly assured him that it was merely sympathetic blindness, his undamaged eye reacting to all the trauma inflicted on his other eye. He promised that it would pass in time.

True to the healer's word, the vision in the archer's left eye did slowly return. Shadows and then blurs and then colors and then, finally, the degree of vision he was accustomed to. The scar that cut down the right side of his face was difficult to look at, deep and still raw to appearance and touch.

Legolas had cried again when he saw it. Not so much because he was vain, but because the wound was a brutal, horrifying reminder of how he'd lost his mother and it was carved into his very face. His father held him while he wept, then smoothed away his tears and taught him how to pull an illusion over himself, hiding his wound the same way Thranduil hid his dragon-fire scars.

"I love spending time with you, Adar," Legolas murmured tiredly when they were finished. "But this is a rather macabre bonding experience, hmm?"

And Thranduil actually chuckled. It was hoarse and dry, but it was the first hint of joy he'd shown since his wife's death and Legolas's heart sang to hear it.

It did not occur to Legolas until nearly three years after the attack that the Woodland Realm had missed their scheduled gatherings with both Dale and Erebor.

He had not seen his little siblings in…he did not even know how long it had been.

"Adar?" he said, looking up from his stack of reports. He was retraining his good eye how to read. It often gave him severe headaches, but with the number of reports he had to write and read as Crown Prince of his realm, it was a necessary evil.

"Yes, ion-nin?" Thranduil looked up from where he was reading through a stack of reports at a little table that Galion had dragged into Legolas's study for him to use.

Legolas frowned. "It has just occurred to me that we have not been to Erebor these past three years. Will we be going this autumn?"

Thranduil froze in place. "Ah," he said. He swallowed hard, setting down the parchments in his hand. "Legolas, there was…" the king sighed, rubbing his brow with one hand and looking impossibly weary. "Much has happened in these three years, ion-nin," he said softly, looking every bit as old as he was. "It will…not be easy to hear."

Fear pierced Legolas's heart. "What of Thorin?" he demanded, his heart pounding harder. "And Frerin? What about Dis?"

Thranduil paled further with each name. "I had no choice," he said helplessly. "Legolas, your mother…and you still wouldn't wake up. I had no choice, Little Leaf, you must understand."

Legolas accidentally tore the report in his hands in half, fear rapidly escalating into terror. A Thranduil who had felt like he was out of options was not a Thranduil that made careful, thought-through decisions.

"What did you do?" he whispered.

His father looked up at him with guilt in his eyes.

The story that followed would send the prince screaming from his sleep for weeks to come. Dragon-fire, and broken promises and death, death, death.

Legolas staggered from his chair, dimly hearing it clatter to the floor behind him. "What have you done?' he choked out, feeling the terrible burn of tears. "What have you done?!"

He tried to leave, but his bad leg folded beneath him. Thranduil lunged to catch him but Legolas threw a hand out in his direction.

"Stay away from me!" he cried, turning his face away and hiding it in his other hand.

"I had no choice," Thranduil very nearly begged, tears shining in his own deep blue eyes, so like his son's. "Legolas, I had no choice."

"There is always a choice," Legolas snarled, spinning in place and very nearly falling, only staying upright out of sheer spite. "You made the wrong one. I will never forgive you for this."

Thranduil actually flinched away from his cruel words and the younger elf's heart screamed, but this was not something that he could overlook.

"They were children," he sobbed out, whole body shuddering from the force of his grief. "They were my friends. My gwadyr and my gwithel. And you left them to burn."

Thranduil's face twisted, and he sagged back into his chair, head in his hands. "Forgive me, Las," he begged.

Legolas could feel his heart breaking.

Strong, gentle Thorin, with his ready laughter and loving eyes when he looked at his siblings.

Brilliant, ambitious Frerin, with his great heart and love for all the peoples of Middle-Earth.

And beautiful, spunky Dis, with her quick tongue and warm smiles and strong spirit.

Gone.

Burnt to ashes.

"I can never forgive you," the prince choked.

A tear ran down Thranduil's pale face, but Legolas turned away and closed his heart.

"Leave me."

"Legolas—"

"LEAVE ME!"

Thranduil bowed his head, tears now running freely. He slowly rose to his feet and moved to the door of Legolas's study, hesitating there for a long, long moment before going out and softly shutting the door.

Legolas lost the strength he'd desperately been clinging to and collapsed to the floor, curling into himself and screaming his grief to the cold, uncaring stars.

He did not speak to his father outside of political and diplomatic events for fifteen years.

He spoke to his King, of course, as his Commander and Crown Prince. But he did not speak to his father as his son.

He could not choke the words past his pain and betrayal and oh, if he had only been faster that day. If he had only been able to save his mother, then she at least would still have been with his father when the dragon came.

Maybe they would have been saved.

But no.

He had failed his mother, and in doing so, his precious, precious dwarflings.

And now he would never see any of them ever again.

He broke in the middle of the night exactly fifteen years, four months, and twenty-seven days after learning of the fall of Erebor.

Life could be taken so swiftly. Rarely was there a warning or any sort of preparation available. There was no guarantee he would have his father past the next day, and his mother's words rang in his ears.

"Do not…forget what…you have…"

He stumbled down the halls of the fortress, blind with tears, finding his way by feel and muscle memory. He all but fell through his father's door, hearing him instantly sit up in the bed.

"What is—Little Leaf?" soft footsteps announced the King approaching him rapidly, but Legolas found himself unable to move. "What is wrong, Little One?"

His father's strong arms wrapped around him and Legolas cried, clinging to his father like he had not since he awoke in the healing wing all those years ago.

"I love you," Legolas choked out. "I will always love and adore you because you are my father. But I can never, ever forgive you for this because they were mine and you left them to die. But I cannot bear to lose you as well."

"I can ask for no more." Thranduil held him tighter. "Oh, ion-nin, your heart is too big. You love so fiercely that it nearly destroys you every time you lose someone. I would have you no other way, but I would have you hurt less."

Legolas just shook his head and clung to him tighter.

His father took him out to the balcony and settled both of them on one of the low couches, wrapped securely in Thranduil's robe. He held his son all night long, singing to him softly and stroking his hair, as they had done when he was very small.

News was slow to arrive in the Woodland Realm.

With Legolas now recovered, more efforts were made to reach out and establish some form of contact with the outside world, but with the Darkness in the south growing stronger every day, there was not much they could do.

They were, however, able to greatly assist the survivors of Dale, who had retreated to the now-ragged remains of Esgaroth. Working together, the men and the elves managed to build a sturdy, stable home afloat the waters of the Long Lake, rebuilding Esgaroth to at least a fraction of its former glory. Or, as it later became known as, Laketown. The Greenwood's trade—and news network, by extension—was therefore limited to only the small Mannish town.

One of Legolas's Captains was a Silvan elleth by the name of Narylfiel. She was one of the few survivors of the attack that had claimed the life of the Queen. She took charge of their scattered information network and set about crafting it into a dependable, useful, efficient system. It took her a long time, and so it was years before they heard of the failed attempt to reclaim Moria by the displaced and desperate dwarves of Erebor.

Thror is dead, the whispers said. Thrain is missing. The one they call Oakenshield rules them now and they follow him. He defeated the Defiler. He leads his people to the West and they follow him. Thorin Oakenshield, is his name.

Legolas very nearly collapsed when he heard.

"Thorin is alive?" he asked weakly, his hands shaking, not daring to believe it.

"Aye," Narylfiel grinned at him, green eyes aglow with joy. The Silvan archer was one of his most trusted warriors and dearest friends. Her brother, Taegalad, made up the last of the surviving archers who had ridden out with the Queen that fateful day, alongside Legolas himself. Narylfiel was strong and true and Legolas trusted her with his life. Her loyalty was unwavering, hence why she didn't mind riding all the way to the stronghold herself to report about a "smelly group of Earth-dwellers" (her words, not his) instead of simply sending one of her scouts. "Tis true, my Prince. Thorin Oakenshield is alive, and from what I could gather, the lady Dis lives as well."

Legolas really did have to sit down then. "Any news of Frerin?"

Her smile faltered. "Ah, nothing for certain," she said, her shoulders straightening ever so slightly, her only tell when she was the bearer of bad news. "But…" she swallowed hard. "If the report are to be believed, Prince Frerin also fell during the siege of Moria. I'm sorry."

Legolas closed his eyes, feeling his friend squeeze his shoulder tightly before letting herself out of his study, closing the door behind her.

Sweet Frerin.

With his determination to save the world and see peace finally fall across all the peoples of Middle-Earth.

"You were too good for this world, tithen pen," Legolas murmured softly, smiling sadly. "And thus were the Valar pressed to take you from it. Much to the sorrow of the rest of us."

But Thorin and Dis still lived, and that lit a joy in Legolas's heart and a light in his eyes that had been agonizingly absent for far too long.

Hope.

It was around this point that his father asked him to take over the training for one of their novice companies, full of new recruits. Among these was a young elleth by the name of Tauriel. She had been orphaned at the tender age of 156 years old, a victim of an orc attack, and had been brought to the stronghold. The fiery young elleth showed great promise as a powerful defender of the realm.

Another of the elflings that he was greatly fond of was an ellon by the name of Ainion. A bright, gentle child he was, more inclined towards the healing arts. He wanted to train as a field medic, a healer who could travel with patrols and fight as well as any of the warriors. His grey eyes were bright with determination but were always warm and ready to make his fellow novices smile.

Legolas greatly enjoyed teaching the younger elves, finding it easier to smile around them, Tauriel and Ainion especially. For one with such sorrow in her past, Tauriel smiled freely and laughed often. She was like a ray of light in the shadows that were slowly covering their forest. And Ainion never let his grief turn him bitter. His light was steady and unwavering, and he took his greatest joy in easing the hurts of others.

Legolas and his archers were out in force, hunting down yet another colony of spiders that had crawled up from Dol Guldur. This entire sector of the forest had been cleared not two moons past by Tauriel, now a Captain of the guard with Ainion serving as her second in command.

But no matter how much of the forest they cleared, more dark creatures replaced them just as swiftly with twice as many. It was beginning to feel like a losing battle, but they were elves of the Woodland Realm. Giving up was not something they knew how to do.

And so they carved their arrows and waxed their bowstrings and sharpened their knives. They ran the treetops every day, hunting the wretched beings that would dare invade their woods. The trees were darker now, few of them still singing, and there were few birds, but it was still their home and they had not held onto it as long as they had just to surrender it now.

After years of hard work, Legolas had once more trained himself into the perfect warrior. His archery had perhaps been the hardest skill to regain, what with his right eye being useless, but he had pushed through it and was once more the greatest archer of the realm. His close-range weapons, however, he had replaced with his mother's mithril-engraved long knives. It had brought a proud, albeit sad, smile to his father's face to see him use them.

It was an average day. Tauriel's patrol had gone out to re-clear that sector when Narylfiel had reported it infested yet again. Legolas had gone with them, as he was in the stronghold instead of at the southern borders for once. Nothing out of the ordinary had happened, and they were anticipating an uneventful hunt when the trees started to hiss warnings.

The spiders were chasing something. Somethings. Several somethings that had got away.

Legolas frowned. That did not bode well. He raised his right hand, letting his fingers form the familiar signs the scouts used to speak to each other without words. He couldn't see his hand, but his archers knew him well enough to figure out what he meant if one or two signs weren't quite right.

The next fifteen minutes were a blur of action, hunting alongside Shelob's spawn until they found the group the spiders were trying to kill.

Dwarves, by the sound of them.

Tauriel shouted the order to attack and the archers leaped into action as one, arrows flying thick through the air. The spiders screeched and made a pathetic attempt at resistance before finally fleeing.

Legolas shook his head at their retreating shapes, scuttling back into their nest as quickly as they could.

There was a sudden burst of chatter from his archers.

"My Prince," Ainion called, his voice strained. "You may want to see this."

Concerned, Legolas leaped easily across the branches until he was above the younger ellon, dropping down to land in an easy crouch.

"What is—" his voice cracked and broke off mid-word as his mind caught up with what his eye was seeing.

Abnormally tall for a dwarf.

Fierce blue eyes in a noble, strong brow.

Dark curls falling past powerful shoulders, streaks of silver running through.

Two braids in the front, clasped with very, very familiar beads.

"Thorin…"

And look at that! We have a reunion.

I'm sure this will go swimmingly.

Hope you guys liked it! Let me know what you thought, and I'll see you all in chapter three!

Love ya!