AN: I am issuing a tissue warning. Tissues will more than likely be needed. I needed them to write this chapter.

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Legolas' wrists were tied cruelly behind his back with a thick length of cord that rubbed roughly against his tender skin, making it bleed as he struggled hopelessly to free himself. But his efforts were useless against the strong constraints that bound him. And even if he had been able to escape – which deep down inside he knew was not possible – the group of eight Orcs surrounding him would have pounced immediately.

"Why won't you let me go?" the Prince asked desperately. "I am of no use to you."

"But we can find something to do with you," one of the creatures laughed, "and I'm sure it won't be pretty. Just you enjoy your freedom while you still have it, little Elf."

"This isn't freedom!" Legolas snapped. "You have me tied up and captive! How can you call it freedom?"

"Defiant little thing, isn't he?" one of the Orcs observed. "Doesn't know when to shut his mouth."

"He will have to learn."

Legolas glanced in the direction of this new speaker, and could not suppress a shiver. The sound was smooth and silky – quite unlike the harsh, grating voices of the others – and it seemed out of place in the group. The Orc that it belonged to was slightly larger than his fellows, with narrow eyes that glittered not black, but red in the darkness. A thin scar ran from his ear down to the curve of his cruel lips, and as he spoke, it moved grotesquely.

"You cannot teach people to be quiet," Legolas said quietly.

The larger Orc rose, and gripped the captive's chin in one dirty hand, forcing him to look up. "Are you frightened of us?" he asked softly.

"No. I thought that I would be, but I can't be afraid when all I feel is…" The child locked his eyes onto the cold red ones above him, and shook his head. "Your kind killed my mother. I don't fear you – I hate you."

A murmur went through the group, and the chief Orc smiled nastily. "Brave words for such a small Elf. But I don't believe you. You are afraid. The fear is coming off you in waves."

"I hate you," Legolas repeated.

"You fear us."

The young Prince was still for a moment, but then with a cry of anger he jerked his head out of the strong grip it was caught in, and spat in his captor's face. Brought up by the Royal Family of Mirkwood, he had been taught etiquette and decorum, not impropriety. But he cared not. Upon realising what had happened the Orc drew back in surprise, muttering and cursing in the Black Speech as he glared at the Elfling.

"If I feared you, I would not have done that," Legolas said quietly.

"But you will pay for it…"

The Orc pulled back his fist and curled it into a rough ball, before bringing it forwards to slam into the child's face. All around the circle, his fellows laughed and cheered as Legolas was thrown backwards to land a few feet away. Their chief was a vicious one, and it was for his violence and brutality that he had been appointed leader. They knew that the young captive would be punished. They revelled in that knowledge.

Tears had sprung to Legolas' eyes, and although he tried to blink them away, some fell from underneath his lashes. The blow from the Orc had split his lower lip, and the salty taste of warm blood in his mouth made him nauseous. His shoulder throbbed horribly, for with his hands bound, he had been unable to break his fall. Pain seared through the upper half of his body, but nonetheless, as he was advanced on by his captor, he tried to struggle back onto his feet.

"Stay where you are!" the Orc leader spat. "I have yet to teach you a lesson."

Legolas edged away slightly, and shook his head. "But you can't hurt me. You did that when you took Nana. Teach me whatever you want to. I don't care."

With a growl, the Orc snatched from the ground a studded whip that belonged to one of his comrades, and held it before the child's eyes. "Look at this," he snarled. "This is one of our more common playthings, but it is one of our most painful. Do you see the spikes embedded in the tails? This toy will make you bleed, little Elf. And you will scream. Will you scream for your 'nana', I wonder? She will not come, though, will she? No-one will."

With that final word, the whip snapped across Legolas' small chest, and a cry escaped from his lips as he felt the burning sensation of broken skin and stinging blood. Even if he had wanted to, he would not have been able to prevent himself from crying; and as he curled in on himself in an attempt to protect his body, the tears streamed down his dirtied cheeks in rivulets.

"This will teach you to disrespect me," the Orc growled, punctuating the words with lashes from the whip. A grin stretched the scar on the side of his face, and he suddenly leaned down to tangle a hand in Legolas' hair. "No screams? Only tears?"

"I won't scream," the Prince choked. "Won't…"

"Not to fear," the Orc laughed. "I have not yet finished with you."

"You are wrong! You were finished the moment your hands touched my son!"

As the surrounding Orcs growled and cursed at the newcomer, Legolas turned his head to the side, and stared through the mass of black bodies; and although he could see nothing, he smiled. He would know that voice anywhere – his father had come for him. What that meant he did not know, but there was no time to wonder about it, for his captor was suddenly dragging him backwards, whilst the other creatures rushed forwards, brandishing their weapons.

Three of them fell dead almost immediately with green feathered arrows embedded in their chests, and the Prince drew in a sharp breath as he caught sight of their killer. His abused body was almost forgotten; and in the tight grip of the Orc chieftain, he watched through stunned eyes as his father spun and parried, whirled and attacked. The Elven-king was a blur, a mere flash of silver and gold as he ducked under a scimitar, only to stab its owner through the neck upon rising.

With two of the creatures left to defeat, Thranduil showed no sign of tiring, which was not to be wondered at in such a warrior. But he was not without injury. An angry red line on his upper arm was visible through the slashed material of his tunic, and claw marks ran down the side of his cheek, vivid against the pale hue of his skin. But still he fought on, his Elven blades swinging to behead one Orc, and paralyse another.

And that was it. Seven of the creatures lay at his feet, never to rise again. The Elven-king's head was bowed as he looked down upon the fallen Orcs; but he slowly raised his eyes to stare instead through the golden hair that had come loose and now hung around his face at the chieftain. His silver eyes met red, and as they did, they narrowed coldly.

"Release my son," he said in a low voice, "and maybe…just maybe I will find it within me to spare you from the same fate as your friends."

Legolas desperately wanted to cry out to his father, but now that the stunning action was over, pain started to creep back into his body, and tears filled his eyes once more. The Orc chieftain's arm tightened around his chest, and he lowered his head to stare at the ground, horribly aware of the cold blade that was moving slowly across his torso. Was he going to die? He could not help but wonder.

"I have a blade and your son," the Orc snarled. "That gives me the power, not you. My hand could slip at any time, Elf, and then your little brat would be gone…dead."

Thranduil nodded calmly, though inside, his heart was racing. "You could take his life if you so desired, but you will not. Because you know that if you do, I will hunt you down, and I will torture you until you hurt as much as he does."

"The fair ones do not torture," the Orc said scornfully. "You do not have it within you."

"For our children we would do anything," Thranduil replied. "Release my son, and I will let you go free. I am giving you the chance to escape. You would be a fool not to take it."

Legolas closed his eyes as the point of the knife was pushed against his shoulder. "Ada," he whispered. "Help…"

The Elven-king dropped his own blades to the ground, and picked up a bow that had fallen from the grasp of a dead Orc. "This is not the sort of weaponry that I am used to," he said. His voice was casual, a mask for the fear that he felt inside. "However, I can use this as well as I can my own bow. Did you know that whilst training as warriors, we are taught to use the weapons of enemies? It is a skill that comes in useful. I can have an arrow strung and released in a mere second. And I will, if you do not do what I ask."

"Elves…" the Orc jeered. "You are all talk, and nothing more."

"I would not say that," Thranduil answered. He picked up a short black arrow, and notched it to the rough bowstring. "You should suggest this to your chief – learning to use the weapons of enemies. It gives you an advantage in battle if you lose your own defence, you see."

"I am the chief…"

"Of seven dead Orcs?" Thranduil smiled, and looked down at the fallen beings at his feet. "So really, you are not the chief of anything at all, are you? How unfortunate."

With a snarl, the creature suddenly pushed Legolas away, and jumped forwards to the King. "Like I said, all talk! You Elves are all the same!"

"Yes, and you Orcs are all the…"Thranduil glanced quickly at his son, and his face visibly paled as he realised that the boy had not moved from where he had fallen. "Valar…"

"Falling for such a simple little trick? That is something they neglected to teach you in warrior training," the Orc laughed. "And you thought that you were winning! No, this victory is-

"Mine!" Thranduil spat. He kicked his knife up into the air, and as it began to fall again, caught it in one hand. With a hiss of anger, he spun, and hewed his opponent's head from its body.

The creature fell to the ground, but the Elf did not even notice as he jumped over it to reach his son. Eyes flashing with fear, he laid a gentle hand on the boy's shoulder, but he felt no movement beneath him. You should have known, he told himself silently. It really was simple…and now your child is paying for what you failed to realise.

"Legolas. Legolas, can you hear me?" he said out loud, gently turning the Prince so that he could lie on his back. "Legolas…"

"Ada?" came the faint reply. "He stabbed me…the Orc stabbed me when he pushed me…I hurt…"

Thranduil winced as he started to cut away the Elfling's tunic with his knife. He could feel blood against his fingers, and knowing that it belonged to his child was just… "I know that you hurt, ion-nin," he whispered. "But you are safe now."

"You haven't called me that since before Nana went away," Legolas murmured. "I like it when you do, because it makes me feel like I'm…like I'm yours, and no-one else's. I missed being called it. I missed you."

"Hush, hush," Thranduil said softly, as the Prince made a noise of pain. "Do not strain yourself."

Legolas leaned his head back against the grass, and closed his glistening eyes. "What are you doing to me, Ada?"

"I am binding your wounds as best I can so that they can be better healed when we find Elrond and Círhael," Thranduil replied, ripping a strip of material from his own tunic as he spoke. "Forgive me, ion-nin. I have no medicine or pain-killing herbs to give you."

"You came," Legolas whispered, as though he had not heard his father's words. "You rescued me, Ada. I told myself that if you loved me you would come…and you did."

"Never doubt my love for you," Thranduil said softly. "It never wavers, no matter what you might think. It only grows."

With a shaky exhale of breath, the Prince opened his eyes and looked up. "Were the twins telling me the truth?" he asked. "They said that you were in the gardens with Uncle Círhael because you couldn't sleep. It was late, and you weren't in your rooms. Is that true?"

"It is," Thranduil answered, gently lifting the boy into a sitting position. "That was last night. Why do you ask?"

Legolas shook his head, and closed his eyes as the King's cloak was wrapped around his body. "I…I made a mistake," he whispered. "A very big mistake."

The elder Elf was silent as he wondered at this, but he said nothing of it as he lifted his son into his arms. Instead he stood; and gently turning the child's face away from the dead Orcs, said: "You are being very brave, ion-nin. I have seen veteran warriors sobbing over wounds like this."

"I hurt," Legolas murmured, as he was carried through the trees. "I hurt, but I won't cry any more. I think it is because I know that I will see Nana soon. I am going to go where she went, aren't I, Ada?"

Thranduil closed his eyes to stop them from dampening, and shook his head. "No, you are not going to go there. I am taking you back to the palace, and the healers will make you better."

"Oh."

"You do…you do want to be made well again," the King said softly. There was no answer, and he paled. "Don't you?"

"I don't…don't know."

Thranduil stopped dead in his tracks, stunned, and with a shaking hand, turned the child's face upwards. But with those last whispered words Legolas had passed into the realms of darkness, rendered unconscious by wounds that elder Elves had not survived. His eyes were closed, but the long lashes that lay against his cheeks were wet, glistening with silvery tears. Drawing in a deep breath, the Elven-king shook his head. He was not going to lose his only child.

He was dimly aware of voices through the trees; most of them he recognised to be those of his friends and family – at least, what he had left of the latter. But at that moment, he found that he was unable to find it within himself to care. All he knew, all he could think was that his son, his Elfling son, was unsure of whether he wanted to live or die. No child should ever have such thoughts, but Legolas…Legolas did. And that hurt him in ways that he had never before known.

"Thranduil!"

The Elven-king turned his head, jerked back into reality as he saw Rivendell's Lord running towards him. "Elrond…we need to get back to the palace. Legolas needs to be healed."

"What is the extent of his injuries?" the elder Elf asked urgently, running his eyes swiftly over the Prince's still body.

"Lacerations across his chest and back, a stab wound to his shoulder," Thranduil answered. "I have bound them, but they cannot be treated out here. None of us have the correct equipment."

"No, we must return to the palace," Elrond agreed. "Come, Elladan and Elrohir brought horses. We have need of their speed now."

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With the help of the horses they reached the palace in a mere fifteen minutes – though it seemed much longer to all of them; and now Legolas was lying in bed, having his stab wound examined by Elrond. The Elf-lord was silent as he worked, looking up only occasionally to murmur soft words to his patient. But as he finished the examination, a strange shadow passed over his face, and his gray eyes darkened with a sudden sadness. Sighing, he moved away to stand at the side of the room, leaving his sons to gently administer medicine to the young Prince. As Thranduil and Círhael appeared before him, he shook his head once.

"What is it?" the King asked urgently. "Tell us…"

Elrond turned away from his friends to stare at the opposite wall, unwilling to look into their faces. "Legolas is…the stab wound…it is not a normal stab wound, which is why he feels only a small amount of pain. I have seen this before, but only a few times."

"Not normal?" Círhael asked softly. "What do you…?"

"The blade that inflicted this wound was poisoned," Elrond sighed. "What the right name of the substance is I do not know, but we call it Morguruthos, black death, because what it does is…it may be almost painless, but it is fast working and fatal. There is no cure."

"No cure!" Thranduil hissed. "How can there be no cure? There has to be!"

Elrond turned back to face his friends, and shook his head sadly. "If there was, I would be tending to your son now. I have come across this maybe…four times before. Each of the victims…they died."

"You have to do something," Círhael said quietly.

"With no cure, what can I do?" Elrond asked.

Thranduil shook his head angrily, and pushed the two elder Elves further back into the room so that they could speak without being overheard. "Why are you saying this? Legolas is not going to be taken by this poison."

"There is no cure," Elrond said slowly, as though explaining to a small child. "I am sorry…"

"There may not be a cure, but surely that does not immediately mean that he cannot be saved," Círhael said desperately. "I am not as skilled at healing as you are, but I have dealt with poison before. In the Second Age, Thranduil and I went wandering over Middle-Earth, searching for adventure. We found it in a band of men who attacked us. That night, I realised that one of Thranduil's wounds was poisoned. I did not know how to cure it, so I made an incision in his arm, and bled the poison out."

"And I remember seeing you do the same during the Last Alliance when you were unable to find cures for infected wounds," the Elven-king added. "As a child I ran away from my home. I had no food, so I improvised with leaves and flowers. Something I ate was poisonous, but because I could not identify it when I returned home, the healers had to flush it out of my body. And-

"I know all of this, but have you heard nothing that I have said?" Elrond interjected. "This poison is very fast-moving. It is thirty minutes since it entered Legolas' body, and by now it will have spread far. If I was to bleed it out…No, I could not. I would have to take so much blood. It would kill him."

"The poison is going to kill him as it is," Thranduil said coldly.

Círhael rested a hand on his brother-in-law's arm, and shook his head slowly, disbelievingly. "There is nothing, Elrond? Nothing at all that you can…"

"I have made him as comfortable as possible, but I can do no more than that," the elder Elf-lord answered quietly. "He feels little pain, and if he…when he goes, he will go peacefully."

Thranduil turned, and watched as Legolas attempted a weak smile at something Elrohir had said. "My son is going to die," he whispered. "My son…Mandos cannot take him from me. Why would he take him?"

For once, Círhael was unable to form a reassuring sentence. He looked at Elrond, and asked the question that had to be asked: "How long?"

But there was no chance for a reply to be given. The twins, who sat quietly with their friend, suddenly leapt to their feet with identical cries of "Adar!" Elrond rushed forwards to the bed and unceremoniously pushed his sons out of the way, not even noticing in his poorly disguised panic as Elladan stumbled, and had to grab Elrohir's arm to prevent himself from falling.

Legolas turned his head to the side, and looked up in vague confusion. "Lord Elrond? Is something wrong?"

The healer touched a hand first to the child's forehead and then to his heart, before standing to face his own sons. "What was it?" he asked. "Why did you call?"

Elladan lowered his eyes to the floor, and shook his head slowly. "Forgive us, Adar. It seems as though our worry was for nothing. Only…Legolas' eyes were closed, we could see chest movement. We thought that…"

"You were right to call me," Elrond replied heavily. "I fear that there is little time left."

"What does that mean?" Elrohir whispered.

"It means that the time has come to say your goodbyes," Círhael said quietly from behind them.

The twins turned to face the Elf-lord, identical expressions of shock and disbelief appearing on their faces as he nodded once to confirm his statement. Tears pooled in Elladan's eyes, but he immediately brushed them away with the sleeve of his tunic; Elrohir was quick to follow suit. He was still for a moment, but then he turned back to the bed, and sat on its edge.

"Mellon-nin," he said softly. "I…I don't…"

"We have not known you for very long," Elladan said, as his twin struggled. "But despite that, we have had some of the best times of our lives with you. Most of those times included honey, buckets of waters, spiders…"

"And Glorfindel chasing you both through Rivendell," Legolas said quietly.

"Of course. But not all of our time spent together was devoted to playing such tricks on unfortunate Elf-lords, was it? Sometimes we would just sit and talk," Elladan continued. "It was always those moments that we enjoyed most of all."

"Me too," Legolas murmured.

Elrohir reached out, and gently touched his friend's cheek. "We have never known anyone quite like you. We probably never will. We just want to say…thank you for coming into our lives, and…"

"Are you alright?" Legolas asked softly.

"Something in my eye," Elrohir whispered back.

Withholding the sigh that he so dearly wanted to release, Elrond put a hand on both of his sons' shoulders, and gently pulled them back to stand beside him. He did not want to drag them away from their injured friend, but he knew that time was not on their side. He would not have Legolas go without having a last moment with his uncle and father.

"Come outside with me," he murmured to the twins. "I do not want you here for this."

As Elrond and his children quietly left the room, Círhael stepped forwards and sat on the bed. Small fingers entwined in his, and he smiled vaguely. "Legolas, what have you gotten yourself into this time, then?"

"I made a very big mistake," the Prince sighed. He locked eyes with the elder Elf, and bit down on the uninjured part of his lower lip. "Are you still mad at me for trying to steal Ada's treasure?"

"No. I had forgotten about that," Círhael replied softly. "Why, do I look particularly angry?"

Legolas shook his head slowly. "No. I know that I am naughty sometimes, but I don't do it to make you mad. I don't like making anyone mad, especially if it is someone that I love lots."

Círhael bit back the tears that stung his eyes, and leaned forwards to tenderly kiss his nephew's forehead. "I love you also, tithen-las," he murmured. "I love you so much."

As his uncle made to move back once more, Legolas raised a hand and gently tangled it in the fair hair that hung above his face. "Wait," he whispered. "Do you want me to say hello to Nana for you?"

"I…" Círhael hesitated for a moment, but then he smiled gently. "That would be lovely."

Thranduil stood a little way back from the bed, and as his brother-in-law rose and nodded for him to go forwards, he felt a sudden reluctance to do so. He did not want to say goodbye. How could he, to his only son? Strangely, he felt that by staying away and prolonging his final farewell to Legolas, he could also prolong the inevitable. But it was a ridiculous notion, a childish one. He kicked himself mentally, and went forwards slowly to stand by the bed.

"Ada, I'm tired," Legolas said quietly, looking up through his lashes. "I think that I want to go to sleep."

"Do you?" Thranduil answered in a soft voice. "That does not come as a surprise to me. You have had a very tiring day, ion-nin. And it is long past your bedtime."

The Prince nodded, and a ghost of a smile passed over his pale face. "You always used to let me stay up late when I had been good. And then when I started to yawn, you would carry me to my room and tuck the bed sheets around me so that I was comfortable. That was always my favourite part about going to bed."

Thranduil nodded as he sat on the edge of his son's bed. "Mine too," he murmured.

"Ada, can you help me?" Legolas asked. "I want to sit up for a little bit."

"Careful, let me," the King said quickly. He leaned forwards, and being as gentle as he could, lifted the child so that he was sitting. "There. Does that feel better?"

"Yes. Don't move."

As Thranduil stopped himself from drawing back, Legolas outstretched both arms, wincing slightly at the pressure on his injured shoulder. But he ignored it. He had to, if he wanted to finally get what he had been missing for so many long days. He leaned forwards slowly; and drawing in a deep breath, wrapped both arms around his father's neck.

"Ai Legolas," Thranduil breathed. "Ion-nin…"

"Just hold me," the Prince whispered. "Hold me like you used to."

The Elven-king closed his eyes tightly as he ran a hand gently through his son's golden hair. He could not believe this. How could he possibly believe that a poison both incurable and unstoppable was racing through the small body pressed against his own, when other than tiredness and small amounts of pain, Legolas appeared to be well enough?

'Am I dreaming this?' he asked himself silently. 'I must be, because surely I cannot be living it? My son is not going to be taken from me. He is not…'

"I have never seen you fight properly before," Legolas murmured into his father's shoulder. "I have seen you practicing, but…but never anything more. I would not like to do battle with you. You are very brave."

"I am not as brave as you think," Thranduil sighed.

"But you fought all of those Orcs, and you only have a few scratches from them," Legolas answered. "You are a hero. You are my hero. Ada, I didn't mean what I said to you. I don't hate you, I never have. I love you, and I know now that you love me. I shouldn't have run away. It was silly of me, and I wish that I had stayed at home."

"Hush," Thranduil whispered.

"I'm sorry…"

"I know."

Legolas forced his eyes open, and smiled vaguely. "I think I want to sleep now. I am very tired."

"Then you can go to sleep," Thranduil said quietly. "Just…will you let me hold you for a little while longer? And then I promise that I will let you go. Only a minute more, ion-nin."

"Yes, a minute more," Legolas whispered.

Thranduil looked across the child's head, and his gaze met Círhael's. The elder Elf's face was pale as he watched the scene play out; but despite his pain, no tears fell. As his brother-in-law was unconsciously doing, he was making an effort to try and keep things as normal as possible for Legolas. But it was hard…so hard when all he wanted to do was break down and cry for what he was losing.

Exhaling, Thranduil leaned forwards slightly and kissed the top of his son's head, before lowering Legolas into the bed as he would a mere babe; and with a sad smile, pulling the coverlet up over the boy's chest. As he tucked the sheets around the little body, as he had always done before Ithilwen's death, he realised that the simple yet tender action had never felt more loathsome. He could not shake off the feeling that this was sealing the child's fate.

"Will you tell me a bedtime story?" Legolas' voice was barely audible as he voiced the request. "It will send me to sleep."

Thranduil's head jerked up, and he was unable to stop tears jumping to his eyes. But he forced himself to smile for the young Prince as he asked: "What sort of story would you like to hear?"

"One about you," Legolas whispered.

"About me?" Thranduil repeated. He knelt on the floor next to the bed, and took one of his son's hands in his own. "Very well, if that is what you want."

Círhael stepped forwards suddenly as he remembered the conversation that he and his nephew had had earlier that day – it seemed a lot longer back. "I promised Legolas that he could hear of the time when you shot Oropher in the foot. He has not yet heard that one."

"Is that the story you want, tithen-las?" Thranduil asked quietly.

"Yes, that one."

The Elven-king was silent for a moment, but then he nodded, and began in a soft voice: "It was the Second Age and I was only an Elfling, not much older than you are now. Like you I loved my weapons training; unlike you, I preferred blades to the bow, so I never tried to improve my skills – which were non-existent – on the latter. This did not sit well with everyone else. The other children laughed at me and called me stupid because I could not shoot correctly; the warriors hinted that I would never be one of them if blades were my only skill; and even your uncle taunted me about it…"

The gentle voice of his father washed over him, and as he listened to the story, Legolas felt his eyes beginning to close. But they had to stay open. He never fell asleep during a bedtime story, even if he was especially tired after a long day spent in lessons. But this time, as he tried to force them open once more, he failed. They continued to fall downwards. His last sight as his dimming eyes met darkness was not the face of a King or warrior, but of a father – a father who loved him.

'I will miss the end of the story. But Ada will understand. He loves me,' the Elfling thought vaguely, as he allowed himself to finally succumb to the seductive call of sleep.

"So one day I decided to spend all of my time practicing with my bow so that people would stop laughing at me. I practised for so long into the evening that my father got worried, and came…to…"

As the pressure on his hand relaxed, Thranduil fell silent and bowed his head. He did not even have to look to know. His son, his only child…was dead.

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Well, this was the penultimate chapter. I had real trouble writing it, so I hope it was alright. Now, we all know that I can't kill Legolas. The next – and final – chapter will be up in the next few days, so you'll find out what happens then: a lot of you are keen to have the last two chapters before I go on holiday, so that's what I'm doing.

Anyway, the heat out here – yes, in England, I'm having trouble believing it myself – is overwhelming, so I really must go. Thank you all so much for your lovely reviews,

Misto

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