Author: Mirrordance

Title: Return

Summary: Post-LOTR. Legolas always felt at odds with his home kingdom. Though it's King by birthright, he fled it, building a prosperous colony in Ithilien. Just when all seems well at last, great dangers in Mirkwood call for the return of THIS King home.

* * *

PART ONE

* * *

Eryn Lasgalen

3020

* * *

      "It's good to come home, is it not, master elf?" Gimli the dwarf inquired of his companion, the golden-haired Mirkwood elf whose Rohan-bred steed he shared.

      Legolas hesitated a moment, and in their travels together, Gimli knew every nuance of the elf's expressions to be able to tell he was at odds with the topic; Gimli felt he understood at least a measure of the subtlest beats of silence between his words, this smile, or this twinkle in his eye.  He especially knew, he thought wryly, the way the elf's shoulders stiffened at some unwelcome barb, for mostly he did not really see Legolas' face, traveling behind him upon Arod.

      "In its own way," the elf said at last, his voice as melodious as always, taking on a familiar, wistful tone.

      "Do you find yourself much changed from when we set out?" Gimli asked, shifting a little in his seat.  Though Arod was always as much Gimli's as he was Legolas' (though he was loathe to admit it at first, and even more averse to admitting he may even be as much loved by Gimli as he was by Legolas!), he still generally preferred traveling upon his own able feet.

      "Elven lives are infinitely long," Legolas replied, considering, "We are little changed by days and years, even by evils and ills that come and go.  An adventure is just one amongst a litany of things that have and will come.  We all return to from where it was that we've been to find all the things we left behind still lying in wait."

      Gimli frowned.  The elf was speaking in riddles.  It was either a particularity of the race, or he was hopelessly saddled with a particularly contemplative individual.

      "What lies in wait for you?" Gimli asked, teasing, "A wife? A child? A lover?"

      "Nothing much," replied Legolas, "that's the problem."

      "If you want a woman, laddie," Gimli said, lowering his voice, "You are fairly good looking.  It should not be a problem at all, if we tweak your charm."

      Gimli felt Legolas' back shake as he chuckled.  "I am happy you are here, Master Dwarf.  I wish things were so simple.  They aren't.  But you certainly make them better.  Perhaps I am more changed than I thought."

      "I'm rather changed myself," reflected Gimli, "Why, me and an elf! An elf and me! Whoever heard of such a thing?"

      "I'm sure there have been stranger occurrences before," said Legolas, laughing.

      Although in all fairness, their past quest was one riddled with strange occurrences; winning against the poorest odds, unlikely partnerships, unlikely heroes, unlikely friends… why, an elf and a dwarf getting along like… like brothers was just about as probable as a peaceful hobbit basically causing the fall of Mordor.  And yet there it all was, such events founded stubbornly in history, not to be doubted, not to be forgotten.

      When they met and banded together as part of the Fellowship of the Ring, it was more than fair to say that their impressions of the other's race created a rather great predisposition towards disliking each other.  But the roads and trials they faced created bonds that could not be broken, forged by blood, and sweat, and tears and laughter.

      Indeed, Legolas conceded in thought, he really was wrong to think he was little changed.  Elven life was long, but it's in life's most telling minutes—nay, barest moments-- that one truly discovers who one was, what one was made of.  And he, in particular, was not only made of stern stuff (which he knew long ago!), but of gentler stuff too—the kind that has the heart (and patience!) to befriend a dwarf, for instance.

      They traveled in comfortable silence for awhile, beneath the trees that were healing after the ravages of war.  The smell was soothing and the presence was kind; the forest was welcoming back its long lost child, and the rustling of the leaves with the wind was her song, the warm streaks of sunlight seeping from the cracks between the leaves was her embrace.

      And perhaps he was wrong about one more thing too: he may have more to return to than he first thought.

      A subtle sound caught his attention, and he brought Arod to a halt.  The horse whinnied softly, and did as its master bid. 

      ~Come out now,~ Legolas demanded of the perimeter soldiers he detected by, ~I know you are near.~

      The Mirkwood elf, having been the forest's lingerer for some centuries, knew her from leaf to leaf, by barest sound and subtlest scent.  He was also the forest's prince and soldier for much of his life, hence it was not by mere sensation that he knew there were other elves about, but by logic that they would inevitably come across the formidable perimeter guards of the great forest realm.

      From behind the trees, silent elves upon horseback emerged, a guard composed of seven.  It was an expected number, an expected place.  He expected they would be well-armed and wary, even of him.  What he did not expect, was to find his murderous younger brother Legardo heading the line. 

      His hands itched for his bow by instinct, but Legardo was looking at him coolly, almost daring him to try.  Legolas deigned to take the bait, and looked upon the face of the one he could never forgive, in a manner that lent more mercy and kindness to an orc.

      ~You must be truly lacking of friends, your highness,~ said Legardo, ~If you willingly suffer the company of a dwarf.~

      ~I find I am more lacking of brothers than friends,~ Legolas retorted, not missing a beat.  Though his manner was carefully composed, his heart beat faster as his harried mind pondered what Legardo was doing here, apparently free, despite his crimes.  But he will show no surprise, nor anxiety.

      Legardo's brow twitched, and it was tantamount to saying, really, that it was a fair thing to say.

      ~Sire,~ said one of the soldiers, whom Legolas recognized as Serafin, an old friend to whom he once was known and refrred to simply by his name, and not his title.  The lines were so clearly drawn here.  He distinctly felt he was the outsider, and very much no longer one of them.

      ~Serafin,~ Legolas acknowledged him, almost coldly, feeling his indignation rise; he despised their rejection.  He refused it, and repelled it, before they refused and repelled him.

      ~You know as well as I that we are wary of strangers upon the land,~ said Serafin hesitantly, ~As we have learned to be, and as circumstances have long necessitated.  My lord… The dwarf…~

      ~Let me put us both out of our misery,~ snapped Legolas, ~He goes where I go.  And he is treated how I am treated--~

      Not that I am treated very well

      ~Last I checked I still commanded you,~ Legolas said coldly, even as he disliked how distant he sounded, even as he knew he could not help the anger that so readily built itself up from inside him, ~I will not suffer defiance.  Your suspicion is an abomination to me, and such disrespect upon this hero with whom I ride.~

      Cowed and stung, Serafin put a hand to his chest and lowered his head apologetically, bowing, ~I'm sorry my lord.  We will do as you bid.~

      ~Would you like to lead the way back as well, your highness?~ Legardo asked his older brother wryly, irreverently, almost maliciously.

      ~That privilege I can yield to you,~ Legolas told him flatly.

      ~Thank you~ said Legardo mock-gravely, ~Welcome back, your highness.  It is good of you to have returned to us just in time for the celebrations.~

      Legolas grit his teeth in irritation, otherwise let the stinging barb slip.  Legardo clearly implied that he returned in time to celebrate, cleanly avoiding the war that directly preceded it.

      You know nothing! he wanted to scream, but held his tongue, lest his passions and pain overflowed.

      The group set out, and Gimli behind Legolas muttered to the elf in a low voice and his own tongue, ^I am apparently almost as unwelcome here as you are.^

      Legolas grimaced.  Gimli picked up about two or three out of five Elvish words by now, and must have understood the gist of the conversation, just as Legolas picked up the core of what the dwarf said in his own, very secret language.  Their time together was fruitful in more ways than one, although Legolas had to admit the dwarf knew more of Elvish than he knew of Dwarfish (being with Gimli, mostly he was more learned in their string of elaborate curses).

      ^The elf there,^ said Gimli, ^He is the much diminished version of you.  In face, and seemingly in heart.^

      "He will not be pleased to hear that," Legolas chuckled, finding lightness in the situation again.

* * *

      His father the King met him at the stables, rushing forward as apparently, riders rode ahead to inform Thranduil that his son had returned at last.

      Legolas dismounted Arod, aided Gimli down, and was handing the reins upon an attendant when his father appeared in the room and purposefully stalked towards him.

      Legolas' eyes lit in pleasure at the welcome sight.  Mirkwood was always a bittersweet place to return to, but his ada was always his home.

      His father's stride was wide and bold, and never without intention.  Thranduil was an elf who devoured life and attention in a room, he was its vortex and its anchor, emanating raw power.  His eyes were sharp and clever, wise with years that rested nobly upon his brow, and all the ills of the world did little to stoop his shoulders or lower his proud head.  He was a King by little or no effort, he simply lived out who he was.

      Determined to frustrate his father into formality (the sight of the old elf always invoked the youth in his insufferable son), Legolas bowed low before the King, though his eyes teased and taunted him.

      ~Sire,~ he said reverently.

      ~Rise, you insolent boy!~ Thranduil barked, even as his eyes laughed.  He clutched his son's arms and pulled him in an embrace, ~Welcome home.~

      ~Such as it is,~ Legolas could not help but adding, smiling wistfully at his father and stepping back.  "I would like to present to you Gimli, Gloin's son.  One of the Fellowship of the Ring.  War Hero.  One who has fought alongside of me and the King of the Reunited Kingdoms of Arnor and Gondor on many an occasion, had vigilantly protected my back, and is also a dear friend to me."

      Thranduil turned to the dwarf, his old-elven side skeptical of the race, even as his father's heart was pushed to gentle appreciation.  "I know not much of your kin, Master Dwarf," he said evenly, "But anyone who stands by my son in the darkest of days is one I hold in the highest regard."

      Gimli smiled and bowed.  "Sire," he said, "I know not much of your kin either, but anyone who has raised Legolas and survived intact, I hold in high regard as well."

      The King's lips quirked in amusement, before he turned to one of his aides, "Lead Master Gimli to his quarters.  I shall have a talk with my son."

      Gimli turned to Legolas inquiringly, and the elf gave him a reassuring nod, as he was led away.

      ~I know you have questions,~ Thranduil said to him gravely, glancing at Legardo who was trying to keep up the pretense of being occupied with settling his horse.  Legolas followed his father's gaze, and noted that Legardo was loosely surrounded by a circle of soldiers and, from the protective way they banded around him and looked at him, these soldiers must have been good friends as well.

      ~Aye,~ said Legolas quietly, ~That I do.~

* * *

      Legolas shut the wooden doors behind him, and he was at last alone with his father in the palace-fortress' breakfast room.  It was one of the more intimate spaces of the kingdom, and though he used to love it for its quiet confines, he was now stifled by the memories it held.

      It was here that he was brought and treated after Legardo's near-fatal stabbing.  His brother's blade lodged upon his back, the pain that throbbed and took over his mind, the pain of the betrayal that was tantamount to that dagger being lodged against his heart, that scar he still carried upon his back, refusing to leave him, refusing to heal…

      Thranduil watched his son's face, and when Legolas' perceptive eyes met the sharp, measuring ones of his father, he knew he was taken to this room in particular for a purpose.  The idea offended him and sparked his anger, which was easy enough to court given the conditions of his return.

      ~Am I a toy of yours, ada?~ he snapped, ~Am I some kind of a curiosity? What did you expect from me? Is it so surprising for you to see that I find such grave pain here? Was the experiment so necessary?~

      Thranduil shook his head, ~My son…~ he hesitated, ~I brought you here that you may be pushed into the plainest honesty with me.  You were always one to keep your hurts.  It breaks my heart, when I see it bursting from your eyes, even as your lips are sealed so proudly and defiantly.~

      Legolas set his jaw, and took a breath before he asked without mincing words, ~What is he doing roaming about freely?~

      ~The last battles against Dol Guldur were harsh and desperate,~ Thranduil replied, ~We needed all hands that could wield a weapon.  His were willing and able.  He earned his amnesty, though he will never regain his line to the throne.  His crimes have been tantamount to giving up his birthright.~

      ~Earned his amnesty?~ Legolas asked, disbelieving and hurt, ~Earned his amnesty! I care not for his line to this forsaken throne, ada, but amnesty? Forgiveness? Freedom? For all of his irredeemable crimes? He killed Lesandro! He was near to succeeding in doing the same to me! I paid centuries of my life, centuries of my life for his crime! I paid for his crime with my exile, and my loneliness, and the blistering cold of hundreds of winters! I paid for his crime with silence and isolation! Earned his amnesty, you say? I think not!~

      ~What would you have me do, Legolas?~ Thranduil asked him helplessly, ~Toss him back into the dungeons from which he came?~

      Legolas stared at his father, feeling betrayed, ~I cannot breathe the same air he breathes, ada.~

      ~Perhaps he is changed,~ Thranduil said tentatively, ~He fought for us most fervently.  He is a hero to our people.  He is redeemed in their eyes.~

      ~And in your eyes?~ Legolas asked bitterly.

      ~You should not ask questions the answers to which you know,~ said Thranduil, ~And you know would hurt you.~

      ~I feel I am being faulted for not being here during the war,~ Legolas retorted, ~Even by you.~

      ~Not by me, Legolas,~ said Thranduil fervently, ~Never by me.  But our people… they are no strangers to your feats and skills.  And they know you are a hero in the War of the Ring.  But they just wish, perhaps, that your talents were here with us instead.  We were no less needy.  Their minds may tell them otherwise, but their hearts are pained by the idea that their prince has gone and left and fought someone else's war.~

      Legolas was speechless for a long moment, disbelieving what he was hearing, at a loss for words in his great, bitter indignation.  He should have known, though, in afterthought, that things would be this way.  What had Legardo said, just today?

      Welcome back, your highness.  It is good of you to have returned to us just in time for the celebrations.

      He felt it, that time he ran into his old comrades this morning.  He was Sire, and not simply Legolas.  He was nobility by blood, an obligation, rather than a friend, rather than a brother in arms. 

      ~I left to be worthy of them,~ Legolas said achingly, ~I thought to return with their pride in that I upheld… who we were… what we were, as a noble, valiant people. Can they not see, ada, for you know as well as I that a battle is fought on many fronts? All that was done here could not have been accomplished without that other war I fought in, of which they so distantly speak! I did not desert them.  I would never…~

      ~It is not always so easy to defy the fears of the heart,~ Thranduil told his son soothingly, ~All will be well, you will see.  They will understand in time.  You are home now.  They will see.~

      Legolas looked at him skeptically.  He nodded either way, even as he felt that he never was truly at home here, and wondered if he ever would be.

* * *

      His mind was racing, and he could find no sleep. 

      No longer were the sounds of the Mirkwood evening any comfort or welcome.  Even the slightest disruption in the quiet of the night was like the predecessor to some lethal threat.  His body ached for rest, but his mind refused to believe he was safe here, what with his murderous brother roaming about freely.

      Steps would occasionally shuffle outside his door, and he would shoot up from bed armed with a dagger and practically tear the door open, only to find stunned servants looking at him in terror.

      ~My lord…?~ they would ask, hesitant and afraid.

      ~I'm sorry,~ he would mumble, and the play goes on all night, until the rising of the sun ushers a new day, and it was time to wake, even if he did not have sleep at all.

      Now they'll all know for a certainty that I have lost my mind, he thought bitterly, as he rose from bed and dressed for the day. 

      Maybe they are right

      To his great dismay, his fingers shook as he fastened his tunic.  He was deathly tired from all his travels, but was too jittery and alert to take rest.  It was not a very healthy combination at all.

      A knock upon his door disrupted his thoughts, and he allowed whoever it was to enter. 

      He was surprised to find Lord Sala standing near his door, and was even more surprised to find himself almost… pleased by the sight of him.  Was he becoming so deprived of welcome here that even the sight of so unscrupulous a character lent him a measure of joy?!

      Or perhaps it was just the familiarity.  He knew Sala, and Sala knew him.  If anyone in all of Mirkwood was assured of Legolas' innocence, it was this old cowardly elf.  And Sala was easy to understand… Legolas found he did not have to wonder if he was liked, or disliked, trusted or not.  This was one elf with whom brutal honesty was best, and the idea was liberating.

      ~Good morning, golden prince,~ Sala greeted him, those eyes as measuring as always.

      ~Not up to mischief are we, my lord?~ Legolas asked him.

      ~I suppose I should be asking that of you as well,~ said Sala, brows rising, ~I did not wish to be impolite and have you returned without my welcome.~

      ~I am most grateful for it,~ Legolas told him, finding that he actually meant it! The world was upside down!

      ~You've had a confrontation with your brother, I've heard,~ said Sala, ~I guarantee you I am not anymore pleased with having him about.  He tried to kill me as well, if you recall.~

      ~I cannot forget,~ Legolas said.

      ~Well,~ said Sala, ~You've had greater adventures since your time here, I've heard.  We really must talk sometime.~

      ~Yes, of course,~ Legolas said quickly.

      ~Were you on your way to breakfast?~ Sala asked, ~Would you mind walking with me?~

      ~Of course not,~ Legolas said, smiling hesitantly.  He reached for the dagger beneath his pillow and slipped it behind his boot, as sala watched with interest.

      ~I'll keep that in mind,~ said the old elf-lord, watching Legolas' stern face and saying, ~You do not feel safe here.~

      ~It is an old warrior's habit,~ Legolas said, trying to explain the dagger.  While it was true enough, Sala's observation was no less true as well.

      Sala shrugged, seeing through the quasi-lie, but let it go.  ~You must be surprised to still find me welcome in your father's court.~

      ~He has been lenient to those who have threatened him lately,~ Legolas said wryly, though with more bitterness than he liked.

      Sala, however, took no offense, and his naughtier side even appreciated the clever, snide, comment.

      ~Keep your friends close,~ said Sala, ~And your enemies closer.  I may have wanted to depose your father once, I may still even entertain such thoughts constantly, but I admire his cunning.  He is a clever, crafty, perfect King, who has my admiration.  And if I may suggest… you may want to keep your brother close at hand as well.~

      ~I cannot bear to,~ Legolas admitted, as the two elves stepped out of the room and resumed the conversation along the corridors in hushed tones.

      ~His crimes have virtually guaranteed he will never be in line for the throne,~ said Sala, ~But he is certainly making his mark as a soldier, and a man of the people.  Things may change yet.~

      Legolas frowned, ~You think he still aims for it?~

      ~He always will,~ said Sala, ~As I always will.  It is a throne, my prince.  I think you are the only one who does not desire it so badly.  And ironically, it is you who are in line.~

      ~I do desire it,~ said Legolas, ~But not merely by virtue of my blood.  I wish to be their King, not their tyrant.~

      ~Idealistic,~ Sala said, ~It's almost admirable, if it were not so much of a dream.~

      ~A dream?~ Legolas inquired.

      ~You must take what fate gives you,~ said Sala, ~Your blood is your destiny.  Take the kingship.  And whether you are worthy of it or not, they will discover this later.  It matters not.~

      ~I do not think that is how it should work,~ argued Legolas.

      ~You've been spending too much time with Elessar,~ commented Sala, amused, ~Your situations are not the same.  You need not reclaim that which you never lost.~

      ~But I have lost it,~ Legolas pointed out, ~You see it in our people's faces, my lord.  I am not just not a king.  I am an outsider.~

      Sala looked at him wistfully, and said no more.

* * *

      Gimli walked apace with Legolas as the elf took him on a tour of the palace fortress.  The elf seemed troubled, and Gimli clearly read this from the lines that marred his handsome face.  His quiet eyes only grew more turbulent each time they passed a servant, who would scurry away after muttering some apology of getting in the prince's way.

      "Why are they afraid of you, laddie?" Gimli murmured.

      Legolas pursed his lips.  He was yet to speak to Gimli of his situation here.  "I was accused of murdering my older brother.  While I had the chance to clear my name, I never had the time to allow them all to get re-accustomed to me.  I was gone for some centuries."

      Gimli frowned in thought, "And you are next in line for the throne."

      "Yes," replied Legolas, "It is not very becoming of a King, is it? To be so feared, to be so unloved?"

      "They just need to know you," soothed Gimli, "As I know you, as we have all known you."

      "I am finding," Legolas reflected, "I will never be the kind of King that Aragorn is.  And I feel… that he is the best of what it is to be like.  If I cannot give my people that kind of leadership, I might as well slink back into the shadows from which I came," he chuckled sadly, "Life would be infinitely simpler for all concerned."

      "Are you considering abdicating?" Gimli asked, alarmed.

      Legolas shook his head vigorously, offered Gimli a helpless smile, "I'm sorry.  I'm speaking too rashly.  It's not as bad as it all seems, really."

      Gimli looked at him skeptically, "I know that strained smile of yours, elf, and I do not like it," he said gruffly, "But I will let you be for now."

      "Good," said Legolas, relieved.  He looked about him, and remembered that several years ago, he had taken Estel on a similar walk, speaking of similar things.

      Estel accompanied him in his walks, and he would tell all these wild childhood stories, almost every artifact in the house reminding him of some misadventure.  Some parts of the palace he did not recognize at all, like new wings and remodeled rooms.  He would say with a little kind of sadness that 'this was not here before,' or perhaps 'this is new,' even if it were hundreds of years old. 

      He initially set out, finding joy in the smallest of recognizable things.  But the more new, changed things he found, the more new and changed people… he began to realize that this was no longer his world as much as he used to think it was.

      On one of these such walks along the same courtyard which he had fought his brother in nights before, he voiced out his worries to Estel, who had long since felt it coming by the thoughtful look of the elf.

      ~Everything is different,~ he said, pensive, ~And they are all looking at me differently.~

      ~Things change,~ Estel said wistfully, ~People change.~

      ~We are elves,~ argued Legolas, ~Things are supposed to be constant, strong and reliable and for ever.~

      ~Perhaps you just need some time,~ Estel suggested, ~You will come to know this place, and your people again.  And they will come to know you.~

      ~They are wary of me,~ Legolas said distastefully, ~As if my name was not already cleared in the most public of ways!~ he sighed, ~And yet I cannot fault them.  For all these ages I was their sole kinslayer.  Their one elf-villain.  This name is stained.  This entire crown is stained.  A dead mother, a murdered brother, a murderer brother, an exile.  They do not know to trust us, except for ada.  They do not know to trust me.  I am no King of theirs, Estel.  They will never take me.~

      ~Such is your right by birth,~ said Estel, ~They will take you, and follow you.~

      ~But I want to be their King,~ Legolas pointed out, ~Not their tyrant.~

      They walked quietly for some moments.

      ~I want to return to them a conquering hero,~ chuckled Legolas, ~Is that not a strange, ridiculous dream?~

      Estel's brows rose.  ~I've been told it is a path I might have to take.~

      Legolas smiled.  ~Of course.  It's because you are a strange, ridiculous man.~

      Estel laughed.  ~Well then perhaps you should start dreaming so as well, strange, ridiculous elf.~

      And now he was indeed back.  Returned a great conquering hero, yes.  But not their hero.  Not his people's hero.  He was a hero of a distant war, someone else's war.  It was black humor of fate, really, to give him exactly what he said he wanted and for it all to still come to nothing.

TO BE CONTINUED…