Cisclaimer:Hickory dickory dock. Elves around the clock. They're off to fight for my delight, hickory dickory dock. Hickory dickory dock. Hobbits around the clock. Not mine today, but they shall pay, hickory dickory dock.

AN:(Edited 5 April, 2010) Well, I've already used the above disclaimer, but I don't have time for anything fancier. Maybe next time.

SSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS

"Oh, no. No no no. Mellon-nin,you seem determined to make us all die early deaths!" Elrohir paced back and forth along the hall, muttering to himself.

"You will make us all die of—" Elladan turned a corner, also muttering, and came face to face with his duplicate. Each finished their sentence, knowing before they spoke, that they were speaking of the same thing.

"Grief."

"Worry."

The twins offered each other a tight smile, comforted to know that somethings were still normal, with the strange proceedings going on.

Several hours had passed since their friend's relapse, and the twins had been banished, protesting and complaining, from the room. Elrond had threatened to extend their sentence from the fountain incident, and, as he pointed out, they had not had much sleep since the discovery of their old friend nearly a week before.

They had separated, each claiming to be tired and off to bed. They had not, and had spent the past two hours wandering aimlessly about, highly disappointed at the sudden turn of events.

Elladan smiled now, and offered his younger brother his arm and said cordially, (or so he hoped) "May I escort you to your room, Master Elrohir?"

His twin smiled at him and instead draped an arm about his older brother's shoulders. "Off we go, then!"

Elladan had to laugh. "Remember the last time we did this? Legolas was here then, and we'd all had too much to drink. The next morn we awakened and were informed of the most undignified scene we had made—"

"As we staggered down the hall singing an old elvish drinking song!" Elrohir finished gleefully. "Aye, I do remember that!"

A short silence fell, each thinking of their friend lying in a bed, fighting for his life. Then Elladan remarked, "We need to keep our spirits up. What would Legolas do?"

Elrohir snickered and began to exaggerate his steps, tilting to one side, then to the other. His duplicate laughed and began to do the same. They wandered toward their rooms, laughing and singing, "The Imladrisian red wine, is certainly more than just divine, hey hey!And yet it simply does not compare…"

SSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS

The Lord of Elrond looked up as the faint strains of song reached his ears. He recognized the voices, and he surely recognized the song. "--to Lothlorien's taste, which curls the hair, hey hey!"

The dignified elven lord had to stifle a snicker himself; that song brought back quite a few memories.

He was comforted by the thought that his sons were making an effort to cheer themselves up. Well, at least two of them were. The other, much younger, one was just swiftly depleting the elven realm's supply of chocolate cake.

"Give me that," he said to Estel gently, taking the plate from the human's hands. "You need to give the sweets a break. Go and practice with your sword or a bow. I don't want to catch you moping about anymore today."

Estel scowled, eyeing his chocolate cake, but got up and left the room anyway, thinking it indeed a good idea to leave and practice with his sword. He trotted down the halls, pausing only to stop and retrieve his weapon from his room.

Stepping out into the bright sunshine, he turned to the right and headed toward the training field.

Stepping onto the well-groomed lawn, Estel drew his sword and took a couple of practice swings before settling into a familiar attack routine against one of the teachers.

Elrond glanced at the confiscated cake mournfully for a second, and then busied himself with his patient. Legolas had been restless since his fever had risen, speaking now and then in slurred and muttered sylvan.

Sometimes he seemed almost lucid, but mostly he muttered about the past. Elrond had learned much about this elf's history in the past day and a half. Some, he already knew, and the twins could often elaborate on a single sentence, remembering the event like it happened the day before.

Much to the delight of Estel, who had been present for most of the previous day, the wood-elf had spoken of several escapades and pranks that involved the twins. Elladan and Elrohir had been bidden to elaborate by Elrond, who hadn't heard of the events either.

Imagine his surprise when he learned of the time his sons had nearly gotten kicked out of Mirkwood for dumping rotten milk on the King when Thranduil had a hangover. Their protest was simple: they were aiming for Legolas, and had merely gotten the two mixed up.

Needless to say, Elrond had found the silver lining in all of the dark storm clouds.

But also, much to the twin's bemusement, Legolas spoke of a strange magic, and called out, fearful of 'the fire'. Elladan and Elrohir had been alarmed and confused. Never in all their years of friendship had Legolas spoken of this strange magic and before this, had never shown an aversion to fire.

It puzzled the entire family. When could something have happened? Perhaps very early in life, but there was still the big question: why hadn't they heard about it?

After all, Legolas was not one to keep secrets from other people, (unless, of course, asked not to divulge the information) and certainly not from Elladan and Elrohir. Perhaps the elf had not wanted to remember.

At any other time, the elven-lord of Imladris would simply send an inquiry to the king of Mirkwood, or ask Thranduil himself if the king was there. But right now it was too risky to send another messenger, if only to find out where the first one had gone.

Not to mention the clouds were growing ever higher, meaning that a storm would soon come and tear at the normally tranquil realm with biting winds and torrential rains. Everyone would be inside, and there was the fear of the ford overflowing…

Perhaps the scariest part of that prospect would be that the twins would become bored. And when the twins became bored, most elves with a grain of sense would be far away.

Elrond sighed and glanced at the cake again. It sat on its plate, barely touched, rich chocolate, with thick frosting that melted in the mouth…

He reached out and with the fork, cut a small bite-sized piece from the cake. He had to work at not letting out a soft 'Yummm'.

Putting down the fork was a great effort, but his charge was murmuring fitfully again.

Elrond bent near the prince, hoping to hear something new, and hoping that it would show a revival.

Legolas was speaking slowly and hesitantly, mostly calling for Thranduil in a soft, terrified tone.

"It is all right, little one, nothing here is going to hurt you. Do not be frightened."

The injured elf stopped his muttering and calmed.

Elrond sat back and sighed. Legolas was still quite young in terms of the elves, but strong and wise beyond his years. The elf had been forced to mature early in his home, as the shadow was continuing its advance. The elves came of age at fifty, and Legolas had been cheerfully going out on patrol and making important decisions at 42.

Since that time, more than two thousand years ago, Elrond had never heard the elf sound so frightened, and the notion unnerved him. In the same way, he would have been nervous if his own sons called to him sounding so.

Indeed, he had not heard that tone of voice for many, many years, since the time when Elrohir had been attacked by orcs and left to die. Elladan, coming upon him a few moments later, had made the difficult decision to leave and fetch Elrond, as there was absolutely no safe way to move his twin.

When Elladan came flying into the house calling desperately for his father, Elrond had instantly been alarmed and had ridden out immediately after.

Elrohir had been talking aloud to himself, trying to keep awake for his father, and Elrond's heart had twisted as he heard the terrified tone of his son's voice. This was the same thing.

Elrond sighed mightily again, thinking privately that no elf, or being for that matter, should ever have to sound so fearful.

His dark thoughts led him to yet another problem. The trees were acting up again, even Estel could see that they were upset. They weren't only nervous because of the coming storm, they could sense that something was desperately wrong with Legolas, and they were singing a mourning song, which, in turn, was depressing everyone.

Glancing at the cake once more, Elrond checked Legolas's wound one last time, relieved that less blackness showed, proving indeed, that the poison was dispersing, albeit very slowly.

Then, as the blackness of the storm approached, and the distant sound of thunder reached the valley, he sat down and ate Estel's cake.

SSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS

There wasn't exactly much to do when you're a prisoner, Iladri'on reflected, yawning. How he wished to be back in Imladris, away from the cranky, crazy she-elf.

He wouldn't even mind if the twins dumped more honey on him.

He had been tossed into the dungeons, and left there, for three long days. At least, he thoughtit had been three days. It was hard to tell. Honestly, he had never expected to actually be kept in a Mirkwood cell!

But, he supposed it was better to be down in a cell that up on one of the execution blocks. Although, he wasn't discovering anything just sitting down in a dank dungeon.

Occasionally, he had heard a scream of protest that raised the hair on the back of his neck. The cry was elven, he could tell that much, and it didn't comfort him at all to know that the elves of Mirkwood were still alive, for it sounded as if they would be better off dead.

SSSSSS

Thranduil would have liked to bang his fist against a wall, and would have relished attacking one of the foul creatures that guarded him, but that would be impossible. Seeing as he couldn't move an inch, all he could do was lay against a wall of the cell and think.

Unfortunately, thinking did him absolutely no good, as he was inevitably drawn to the recent events.

And if there was one thing the king of Mirkwood did not want to do, it was dwell on the events of the past eight months.

The foremost, and still heaviest of these weighed heavily on Thranduil's heart. His son's death. Thranduil's soul cried out in pain as he thought of his lost son, and his mind flew back to the day when it happened.

SSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS

He had been nervous when he had learned of Legolas's disappearance. But not exactly ready to panic. However, when the prince had been out for nearly twelve hours and dusk was fast approaching, Thranduil's fatherly trouble sense had been activated.

This sense, long since honed to perfection by many centuries of chasing after Legolas and the twins, had persuaded the king to saddle up and ride out with a handful of guards. Their purpose: to see what trouble their prince had gotten into this time.

It had not been long before they came upon the body of Legolas' stallion, Kilios. The horse had been killed by swift cuts to the throat and four well-placed black arrows. Kilios was a victim of an orc attack.

Out came the daggers, and Thranduil had mounted his own steed, intent on finding his son. Deep down, he was sure this boded evil. Legolas had loved that horse, and would not have let anything happen to the animal while he was still able to defend it.

Perhaps he was simply not aware…

But Thranduil knew this to be a lie. The body was cold, indicating the slaying had taken place hours earlier. Legolas was not the best tracker in the realm, but would have been more than able to find his mount, especially in light of the beautiful day that was now drawing to a close.

The elves had tracked horse's prints to a clearing, and here, the king's fears were confirmed.

Orcs were littered about, their black blood staining the grass. Some had arrows embedded in their throats, and the elves instantly recognized them as Legolas's. The rest were killed by knives, as they could discern from the injuries on the bodies. Also, by discovery of the prince's white knives, found embedded in the throat of an orc.

Thranduil felt a momentary rush of pride as he gazed upon his son's handiwork. More than a dozen orcs, and all were handled apparently easily enough.

But his pride was quickly dispelled in a wave of fear as the elves discovered two more items of importance.

A large pool of elvish blood, and an arrow a little ways away. Upon further inspection, the guards discovered that the arrow was Legolas's, and the head was covered in elvish blood. Not a small amount either, as if Legolas had had a cut on his hand as he drew the arrow and fired. The entire head, as well as a good inch along the shaft was coated in elvish blood.

That, coupled with the fact that the pool of blood was dangerously large, was enough for the elves to draw a conclusion, one that Thranduil did not like.

It was quite obvious, that Legolas had not shot himself on accident; after all, he was Mirkwood's best archer, and archers did not shoot themselves on a mistake. Therefore someone must have shot the prince with his own bow.

The irony was thick, but Thranduil did not stop to consider it. Instead, he inspected the edge of the clearing, nervously wondering how on Middle Earth did someone (or something) manage to get a hold of Legolas's bow, much less find the opportunity to shoot the archer in the back.

For deep in his heart, Thranduil knew that was what must have happened, and the very glimpse of that thought chilled his soul.

"Here!" He called, finding traces of more elvish blood, and the guards quickly mounted and rode on, slowly as to not miss a thing.

Nary more than ten minutes later, they found a gruesome sight. The remains of an elf, scattered amongst the trees. The elves cried out in shock and sorrow as they took in the scene.

Thranduil slid off his mount slowly, as if in a dream. His eyes, already blurred by tears, took in the array.

Slowly, the guards began the task of gathering the remains. Here, a finger, there, several rib bones. They did not find the head.

Riding back to the safety of the palace, the king let his tears flow unchecked. Not since the death of his wife had he felt so, his grief nearly a tangible thing. He had been unable to address the elves of Mirkwood, instead letting his senior adviser announce the death of his son.

He could not bring himself to say it aloud, and to hear the words only deepened his anguish. His subjects had been shocked and deeply sorrowed as well. Legolas had had many friends, and the entire kingdom had admired and loved the young prince, with his cheerful disposition, and amiable temperament.

The entire realm had gone into mourning, and laments floated upon the air to distant towns, who wondered at the sad sounds. The trees were silent, and even the horses were dull and listless. (Whether they were just picking up on the mood, or were missing the daily lumps of sugar from that nice golden-haired elf was anyone's guess.)

Over the course of the months, the realm had gradually gone back to normal, but their spirits were dampened by the action of their king. It was apparent that Thranduil was fading. He had become susceptible to the elements, and was growing weaker by the day.

Many elves suspected that the only reason their king had held on to this earth for so long was because of the shadow becoming ever more apparent in the south, and the stubborn elven king was unwilling to simply give up and leave his people to face the darkness.

Thranduil was well aware of the whispers, but he did not care. His waking thoughts were of his lost family, and his dreams soon became nightmares, so terrible as to keep him awake for many nights, before exhaustion overcame him again. And even then he slept fitfully.