Chapter Three

Legolas Tranduilon stood beside his dapple-gray steed, patiently waiting for his companions. Aragorn dexterously mounted his chestnut stallion and gathered the reigns.

"I still cannot believe your father agreed to this," he exclaimed, somewhat tentatively.

"It was his idea," Legolas returned softly. "Why is it so hard to believe?"

Aragorn hesitated for a moment. "It's just...in all the years I've known you...I have never seen your father desiring a week's worth of my company!" he grinned sheepishly, surprised at his own admittance to this truth.

Legolas laughed lightly, trying in vain to hide his amused reaction. "You're right, Strider," he agreed. "And I cannot say I blame him!"

Aragorn smiled exasperatedly. He quickly sobered however. "Seriously, Legolas, I respect your father very much...and I am glad we can spend a week alone learning from him. I have just never approached him before."

Legolas nodded. "I know," he replied, sighing a little in mild agitation. "My father takes a long time to know people." He looked up at Aragorn, sitting thoughtfully on his beast of burden. "He is quite taciturn, my father, very reserved...so, often people do not know how to read him." The fair elf looked back towards the palace stairs, which his father was now descending. His noble eyes gleamed with admiration and justified pride, and his voice sank to a murmur, as if not meant for anyone else to hear. "I would not have him any other way though."

Aragorn had never sensed a greater love from a father to a son, except his own, as he did when he beheld this small family. He knew that Legolas' relationship with Thranduil had been tested many a time: the life of a prince was never easy. Each had overwhelming responsibilities that often kept them apart for weeks at a time, time that should have been spent learning from each other. Aragorn knew that Legolas' heart was often heavy because of it.

Still, their love had not dwindled; Aragorn felt certain that nothing could ever pull them apart, even as much as he trusted that Legolas could ever betray him. He smiled. 'Legolas is the truest soul in all of Middle-earth,' he thought. 'I trust him with my life.'

He came back to reality when he heard the elf-king's striking voice answering his son's greeting. To Aragorn's unwarranted surprise, the king was dressed in a hunter's outfit and cloak, carrying a bow and quiver on his back. It was like nothing he had ever seen before, and he had to remind himself to keep his mouth from dropping open in bewilder-ment. A thought suddenly struck him. 'They look alike!' he thought humorously. The elves standing beside each other seemed almost as close in appearance as his twin brothers in Rivendell. He chuckled to himself.

Their sensitive hearing picked it up, however. "What are you laughing about, Sir Ranger?" Thranduil held a mock sternness in his voice, but his eyes smiled.

Aragorn smothered his mirth with his hand. "Forgive me, Lord Thanduil" he apologized, still musing over their similarities. "I just noticed how much you two look alike! I had never really noticed before."

Legolas' eyebrows shot up in incredulously. "You are just noticing? My word, Aragorn, you are very unobservant!"

Aragorn gave him a mild glare and pulled his horse back, lining up with the gate before him. He changed the subject readily. "We had better hurry, Your Majesty," he addressed Thranduil, silently but revengefully ignoring Legolas. "If we want to reach the Glade by noon..."

"Aye, you are right," Thranduil agreed. With agility Aragorn had never seen before, the king leapt to his horse's back and guided him to fall in place next to the ranger. Aragorn smiled sheepishly, hoping to cover the look of astonishment he felt he must have on his face.

Legolas was looking at him amusedly from the ground, his eyes speaking what his voice would not.

Aragorn looked away.

Several hours later...

The Glade was more beautiful than anything the Ranger had seen. He sat on his horse like a statue, lost in the beauty of his surroundings.

Thranduil had been to this Glade hundreds of times, searching for the beautiful white stags that wandered through this part of the country. He had suggested to Legolas that they take a short journey to show that ranger these amazing creatures, if they could find one; it would be a wonderful memory, good for the soul, he had said. Upon Legolas' insistence, they left as soon as possible, though Thranduil was against leaving during such a dangerous time.

"The wild-men are still about, Legolas; I do not want to risk going now just to see a deer," he had replied, somewhat hypocritically; he had not counted on his son's eagerness, and had thought to leave in a few months, when it was safer.

"But father," Legolas had urged, eager for the time alone with him. "I have not been able to see you for quite some time; who knows when another chance may arrive? You are not all that busy now, and neither am I; it seems Providential!" he had added, a spark of boyishness creeping up in his eyes.

Upon Thranduil's look of warning, Legolas had apologized for his sarcasm. "I just...I need to be near you, Father. It seems I've forgotten...forgotten how things used to be."

Thranduil's parental sternness had softened into a gentle regret. "I know, my son, I know. I have felt our time slipping away from us as well." Finally, his father had agreed. However, unbeknownst to either the prince, or the Dunedan, the elf-king had spent hours arranging for his watchmen in the outposts to be on guard, ready for anything should the threesome need assistance in any way. He realized his son needed him, and he reasoned, what was more important to him: his protection or his son? The answer was quite obvious to him.

Now, as the three sat under the only completely open sky in Mirkwood and gazed out over the Glade's lush and rippling grass, Thranduil's concerns for the journey temporar-ily melted away. It had been ages since he had been here...and what memories this place held...

Legolas was the first to break the serene silence. "Shall we set the camp near the woods?"

It broke Thranduil's reverie. "Um...aye. Down by the forest on the left there," he pointed. "That is a very good place; there is a small drop-off where we may watch and still not be seen by the stags."

The three rode down the gently sloping hill, and trotted down to the point Thranduil had suggested. Finding the spot was not difficult; the grass gave way to a gentle incline, where they could easily see the open glad without being detected.

Legolas and Thranduil brushed and fed the horses, while Aragorn cleared away the fallen leaves and excess grass to build a small fire. Dinner was light but filling, though Aragorn dared not ask what it was; elves were known for eating bizarre things, such as mustard roots and onionskins, baked together with a very bland bread similar to lembas. Aragorn knew as a Ranger he would have to get used to it, but he vowed in his heart never to like onionskins.

The night came swifter than expected; the three lost all track of time when they talked together, a thing they had not been able to do for some time. Aragorn smiled at his friend's happiness; he was a child again, happily embracing his father's affection. As the night crept on them, the moon shone brightly, and a silvery haze seemed to reflect off of the golden hair of the father and son. Even as they looked up, their eyes too, shone back like a cat's in the dark, the blue and green of them being the brightest they ever had been. They were both peaceful, and yet noble looking at once, causing Aragorn to gaze at them in silent awe. He hated to admit it, but they were both...

'Beautiful', he thought.

Suddenly, Thranduil got down on his hands and knees and swiftly crawled to the ledge. Legolas followed, and Aragorn crept up next to the king.

"There," Thranduil whispered and pointed, though it was not necessary. The white doe seemed to melt out of the darkness of the woods, shimmering in the moonlight. She stole silently into the Glade, her ears perked in wariness. Her admirers dared not breath, hoping she would bless them with a closer look. Finally, her head went down and she began feeding, silently sniffing the grass beneath her, searching for the young, tender shoots.

Aragorn sighed in amazement. "She is beautiful," he whispered, knowing the words were inadequate for the glorious sight that stood before them. Legolas and Thranduil smiled, but they too, could not tear their eyes away from the sight.

"They are the prize of Mirkwood," Thranduil spoke with voice full of admiration and delight. "They have lived in this Glade and the surrounding woods for thousands of years, never leaving, never wandering from their home."

Legolas' eyes gleamed. He had only seen one of these creatures his entire life. Gazing at the doe now, however, it was as if it was his first time. He noticed the doe lift her head and her eyes, shining brilliantly in the light, shifted from place to place, her legs ready to flee at the first sign of threat.

Aragorn spotted her mate first. He crept up flittingly, prancing before and behind her, striving to attract her attention. She seemed to be ignoring him, but the elves sensed an interest emulating from her: she no longer ate, standing stock still, except for her large ears, which followed the stag's movement precisely.

"The mating dance," Legolas affirmed. It was beautiful, two beings searching for a soul mate, someone to spend the rest of their life with. It stirred Legolas and Aragorn's hearts.

Thranduil tore his eyes away, his countenance growing suddenly despondent. As if on impulse, he stood and moved away from the embankment back toward the smoldering fire, all previous joy and awe gone.

Legolas looked up at his father, puzzled. "Adar?" he spoke softly. "Is something wrong?"

Thranduil looked off into the forest, his eyes seeing nothing, only holding an image before him, an image from countless years ago...

Though the white stag and his newly found mate leaped and bounded together, rejoicing in their union behind them, Aragorn and Legolas could no longer gaze at their happiness. Thranduil stood before them, his shoulders heaving slightly with old memories. When he spoke hesitantly, his voice was riddled with sadness and regret, more than even Legolas had ever heard.

"Legolas...I met your mother here."

Chapter Four

The stag froze in his tracks, eyes wide, ears up, legs ready to flee. His mate had sensed it too...

Legolas slowly stood, forgetting the beauty just witnessed behind him. He took a step forward, his face blank, unreadable. "My mother?" he whispered.

Thranduil bowed his head, still not turning around. "Aye...hundreds of years ago...on this very plain." He finally turned and looked at his flesh and blood staring at him in disbelief.

He had never told him this, for what reason Legolas did not know.

Thranduil moved to his son, and placed his hands on the slender, but strong shoulders of the warrior. He sighed, but could not keep the secret now. Swiftly, father embraced son, all that was left of his family.

Legolas was taken aback by the king's affection, but he could not resist his desire to throw his arms around his father. He did so...and it felt so peaceful and satisfying; he had not been able to fulfill this longing for countless years.

Over Legolas' shoulder, Thranduil noticed Aragorn was still sitting, almost reclining on the embankment, apparently lost in his own thoughts. He could guess where the young man's mind had wandered.

He let go of Legolas and touched his arm to make him follow. The fair elf-king gracefully set himself down next to the Gondorian youth. Legolas sat in front of both of them, knowing his father would satisfy all their questions.

"Aragorn," his tenor voice made Aragorn shift his eyes up, though he did not answer. "My lad," Thranduil continued affectionately, "I know who you are thinking about. I can honestly tell you, that my experience was very similar."

Aragorn looked at the elf sitting beside him curiously, pretending not to understand where he was going with this.

Thranduil was too smart for him. "Lord Elrond has told me...about you and Arwen."

The Ranger dropped his eyes again.

"Aragorn, the love you feel for her is precisely what I went through." He placed a hand on the youth's shoulder. "Trust me...I know what you are going through."

There was a slight pause, and Legolas could not help but urge his father on. "Tell us, Adar," he asked softly. "Tell me what happened."

Thranduil smiled in remembrance and stood again, his hands behind his back, thinking. "I know I should have told you this long ago, Legolas," he admitted. "But then...I haven't even taught you everything you need to know yet, let alone told you my all my life's history." He looked back at the curious blue eyes so familiar to him, and saw them smile in agreement. 'Elrond is right,' the king thought. 'I have lost touch with my son...there is much I need to tell him.'

The white stage first alerted them to their danger's presence. He bugled a rough snort, and with pounding hooves, rushed with his mate to the refuge of the forest. The call of warning came too late however. The war cry echoed through the forest, sending terror into the victims' hearts.

Legolas and Aragorn leapt to their feet, their experienced minds and bodies springing into action. As the wild-men swooped across the field towards them, they rushed for their weapons, standing alongside the King of Mirkwood, his bow already drawn, and fire flashing from his eyes.

Aragorn drew his bow and planted his feet, ready for anything. What he saw before him sent shivers down his spine, but he feared not death. Suddenly a thought struck him—he had always imagined that he would die protecting Elrond, or Arwen, protecting his own home. Yet here he was, standing beside his Mirkwood brethren for the second time, ready to do any duty they required of him.

'That'll do,' he thought proudly.

Their predators were on them. The threesome felled several of them before they reached the bank, but the leader, who Legolas immediately recognized as Garthond, rushed ahead of his men, targeting Thranduil. The king and prince's bows went up, and both sent an arrow into his chest.

It didn't stop him.

He leapt over the bank, landing directly on top of the king, rolling with him on the ground.

Aragorn couldn't reach him: already four attackers surrounded him, wielding mighty axes and spears. One swung the giant weapon around his head, intending to take off the Ranger's head. Aragorn ducked, threw his weight forward and slammed his shoulder into the stout man's chest and stomach. They both went down.

Legolas threw himself against Garthond, wrapping his strong arms around the man's neck. Garthond reacted; he pushed himself off Thranduil and stood with Legolas on his back, lifting him off the ground as if he weighed no more than a little child. Two more foes rushed forward to help their leader. Legolas, with much difficulty, kicked them off, sending them both sprawling, but he could nothing more: he couldn't let go of his death-grip on the man, yet he also could not reach his knife at his belt.

It mattered little. Garthond threw him over his shoulder, sending the lightweight elf hurtling through the air.

Legolas slammed into a tree headfirst, and slumped to the ground, motionless.

Thranduil, enraged, seized the wild-man's arm and twisted them as hard as he possibly could, pulling it towards him at the same time. It had the desired affect. With a sickening noise, Garthond's arm snapped, and the wild-man let out a howl of pain. He glared at Thranduil, and struck him full force with his right fist, smashing it into the king's skull. He stumbled and struggled to right himself, fumbling for an arrow.

Garthond's sword came up, wielded in his good hand. Without warning, he brought it down on the king's head.

Aragorn rolled to his side, his chest bleeding profusely. The wild-man's spearhead had found its mark, but the Ranger had succeeded in finishing off his attacker. Three more awaited him. He groaned and tried to stand, but the second in command, apparently, kicked him viciously in the ribs, throwing him back to the ground. Aragorn stifled a cry and drew his knife from his belt.

The giant man reached down for him again...and found an elvish blade stuck in his heart. He eyed the youth lying before him, still holding the hilt of the blade. The wild-man snarled, but knew there was nothing he could do. He dropped beside the Dunedan, his sightless eyes glistening in the moonlight.

The last thing Aragorn saw before the remaining two fell upon him was the sight of his friend lying by the tree, silent and still. "Legolas!" he could not help but cry...and then he saw and felt nothing more.

Thranduil heard the cry, and it sent chills to his heart, but it did not deter him from his target. As the massive sword was brought down upon him, he thrust an arrow shaft deep into the wild-man's chest, blood immediately covering his hand.

For the second time that night, Garthond yelled in pain, but the sword continued. Everything seemed to come in slow motion for Thranduil, yet he could do nothing. The blade gleamed in the light; he could hear the rush of wind as it sped down. The only thing he could do was to move his head to the side.

The blade sliced deeply through his shoulder, breaking bones and ripping through muscles as it went. Thranduil cried out in horrific pain, and dropped before the wild-man, defeated. As, he fell, the king saw his son's eyes flutter open, and his heart went out to him. 'If only I could spare you the pain they will place on you, my son,' he thought. It was over...there was nothing he could do to stop them from the torture he knew they would all face...