Disclaimer: I don't own any of Tolkien's creations, I just like to play in Middle Earth.

Summary: In the aftermath of a failed mission, Legolas returns to the stronghold and must carry on as a captain, a prince, and a son. A story about finding hope and faith in the face of despair.

Author's Note: Sorry for posting late, I'm still playing catchup after being out of town! Thanks to everyone who is still reading and especially to everyone who has taken the time to leave a review. I apologize for falling behind on personal responses, but know that I appreciate it!

Chapter 4

Legolas knocked on the door to his father's study.

"Come in."

Legolas entered and saw his father bent over his parchment-strewn desk. Legolas was glad to find his father alone—he had no desire to maintain the decorum that the presence of one of the king's advisers would have demanded. Legolas poured himself a glass of water from the pitcher on a small table to one side of the room and perched himself on the edge of the desk.

Thranduil raised his eyebrows at his son, "There is a chair, you know."

It was an old rebuke, and there was no heat behind it. "Several chairs, actually," Legolas responded.

"I've raised a heathen," Thranduil said, but he was smiling.

Legolas leaned over and looked at the papers his father was reviewing. "Trade agreements?" He inquired with a grimace.

"Yes, just because you find it dull and tedious does not mean it is not important."

"Do you need help?" Legolas asked as he yawned and rubbed his hands over his face.

"No, thank you. You don't care much for these even when you aren't half asleep."

Legolas shrugged, not unhappy with the answer, "Did anything come of the Council meeting?"

"We need to increase our numbers at the border. We need to find a way to ensure that if our enemy coordinates another attack of this nature, we can withstand it and maintain some measure of safety for the outlying villages."

Legolas pinched the bridge of his nose with his fingers, "I agree, but it will be difficult."

The king nodded, "It will, and our warriors will bear the bulk of that difficulty."

Legolas locked eyes with his father, "And their families."

A ghost of a smile flitted across Thranduil's face, "Yes, and their families."

"We will need to increase the duration and frequency of patrols. It is undesirable, but I think unavoidable at this point. I share Berethron's worries. We did not accomplish our objectives on this mission, but the orcs would have pushed north easily if we had not been there. We simply would not have had enough warriors to stop them on another day."

The king nodded thoughtfully, "The Council thought the same. We will make it work," he eyed his son shrewdly, "Have you seen the healers yet?"

"It is unnecessary, I am well," Legolas replied without hesitation.

"You haven't, then. I believe you have already been told that you should see the healers."

"Galathil told on me?" Legolas asked.

"He did indeed."

"Hmm… I'll need to have a talk with him about discretion."

"Just remember, ion nin, king outranks prince."

Legolas chuckled.

Thranduil looked at his son critically, "Legolas, you should see a healer. From what I have heard, you suffered a wound that should be cleaned under their care and my understanding is that the wound bled for a while after it was dealt." He did not mention that he had also heard that his son had passed out from pain, blood loss, or some combination of the two. He did not voice his fears about what could have happened to his son, unconscious, in the middle of a battle.

"Adar, I am exhausted, and a visit to the healers will take time. If I cannot clean it properly myself, I will seek help, I promise."

Thranduil looked unconvinced.

Legolas held up his hands in a placating manner, "I do not deny that the wound requires tending and that I need rest, but I wish to rest in my own room and in my own bed. And I will not be a burden on the healers. They are busy with others who truly need their help."

Thranduil sighed and put the papers he was reviewing into a neat stack and tucking them under his arm as he stood, "Alright."

"Really?" Legolas was surprised, usually his father was more stubborn, especially when it came to his health. He had been bracing himself for a much longer argument.

"Really," Thranduil replied, "But, I am going with you to your rooms and I will see to the wound myself. If, and only if, I am satisfied, you need not see the healers."

Legolas considered it for a moment. "Alright," he agreed.

Together, they left the king's study, Thranduil maintaining a steadying grip on his son's arm. They both knew it was unnecessary, Legolas had been on his feet all day without issue, but it was a comfort to both of them in which they rarely indulged.

"How are the assignments coming?" Thranduil asked.

"They still need to be reviewed, but we're close. I want to go over them with the other captains, but we should be able to get them to the Council tomorrow, hopefully in the early afternoon."

"That's fine."

"It may be...difficult to fill the patrols for a while and to increase our presence at the southern border. There are new novice classes that will be able to go on routine patrols near the stronghold and along the Elf Path soon, but with the most recent injuries, our numbers are a bit low."

"That is not unexpected. We will manage."

They fell into a comfortable silence until they reached their private quarters. Legolas sighed in relief when they reached his room, it had truly been a long day.

Thranduil set the trade agreements on a side table and moved to a cabinet in the corner that contained healing supplies. He hated that this was a necessity in his son's room, but Legolas was much more likely to rest if he was in his own room. Father and son had reached an unspoken agreement that relatively minor injuries could be tended to here without involving the healers.

Legolas undid the clasps of his tunic slowly and carefully removed the garment. He glanced down and saw the red starting to spot the bandage covering the wound. He frowned, he had not noticed it was bleeding again. Despite being careful, he must have torn some of the stitches.

Thranduil turned from where he gathering supplies and froze. His son's back was to him and although his eyes initially focused on the bandage, he found himself taken aback by the new marks that marred what he could see of his son's torso—it was a veritable map of the war on his son's skin. There were scars he did not recognize, bruises both fresh and fading, minor cuts and scratches. Thranduil said nothing, though, words would not take away his son's pain; words could not end this war. All he could do was treat the current wound and offer him some measure of relief.

Legolas had started to unravel the bandage, but his father stopped him. "Sit, Legolas," Thranduil's tone, while kind, left no room for argument, "Let me do this."

Legolas eased himself onto the edge of his bed and Thranduil pulled a chair up next to him. Carefully, Thranduil finished unwrapping the bandage. He paused at the sight of the wound. The cut was jagged and appeared painful. His son was lucky there had not been more force behind the blow or he would have had broken ribs. Galathil had assured the king that the wound was not overly dangerous, but he doubted his son could move without pain. Fresh blood oozed from the cut where three of the stitches had broken. His hand hovered a few inches above his son's skin—it could have been so much worse.

Legolas frowned, he could practically hear his father's thoughts, feel his worry, "I am alright, Adar."

"You are not in danger of dying, my son. That does not mean you are alright."

Legolas chuckled slightly. This was a fairly new dynamic in their relationship. When Legolas had first assumed the duties of a warrior, and then later a captain, his father could not joke about injuries, even minor ones.

The first time Legolas had been seriously wounded, Thranduil was beside himself. He was not allowed in the healing wards as the healers fought to save his son. To think that he, the king of this realm and the father of the warrior in question, could be expelled from the only place he had wanted to be at that moment had been outrageous to him at the time. With the benefit of time and hindsight, he understood why. A distraught king and father did no one any good. Legolas had been semi-conscious some of the time. Although he had been aware of very little of what was happening around him, he had heard and tried to respond to his father's desperate pleas. His attempts to move had only served to hinder the healers and cause him pain.

Thranduil had been unceremoniously evicted from the wards and was left to prowl the hallways. Unable to work, unable to think past the morbid thoughts that he may never speak to Legolas again, that he may lose his son.

But Legolas had survived, and recovered, and gone back to the fight. He had returned from many battles since then, relatively unharmed most of the time, injured other times. The first time the work of running the kingdom kept him from his injured son's bedside, he had barely been able to concentrate on the tasks at hand. It had been the truest test of his commitment to his duties as a king.

It had taken decades, but father and son had found a new normal. Thranduil had not approved when he first heard Legolas joke about an injury. Slowly, though, he came to accept his son's attitude. He recognized it for what it was, a coping mechanism, a way to find a moment of levity in a serious situation. Thranduil also saw the way his own worry caused Legolas strain, and he began to joke too,if only for his son's benefit. Never when the injury was serious. But sometimes, when the injury was minor, he found it within him and was frequently rewarded with a smile or a laugh from Legolas.

Thranduil frowned at the broken stitches as though personally affronted by them. He could see that Galathil was correct—the wound was not debilitating and it would not even keep Legolas from going on his next patrol, but it had not been tended to since it was first quickly stitched up in the forest; it would need to be cleaned and closed again, "Legolas, the healers should look at this. It needs to be cleaned and the stitches need to be redone. The healers have steadier hands than I do."

"I trust you, Adar." And he did. To Legolas, Thranduil was more than a king, commander, and father. He was a healer, a counselor, and a confidant.

"Then trust me when I say a healer should look at this."

Legolas bit his lip, "Please, Adar, I do not wish to be in the healing wings now. I just want to rest here. You won't hurt me."

Thranduil frowned, but acquiesced. He carefully pressed a clean cloth to the wound. Legolas tensed, but otherwise kept still. Thranduil was glad. He had tended to his son's injuries on far more occasions than he wished to count, and while he knew that sometimes pain was necessary for healing, he hated to be the cause of it. If Legolas could not keep still for this, they were going to the healers whether his son wanted to or not.

Legolas clenched his fists and closed his eyes. He forced himself to measure his breathing—breathe in for eight counts, hold it for eight counts, breathe out for eight counts. He did it again, and again, and again. He lost his rhythm when his father began to remove the broken stitches, but recovered quickly. Control over his breathing meant control over the pain.

While he worked, Thranduil spoke in hushed tones to Legolas. He avoided the more serious subjects facing their people, and instead dwelled on lighter topics. Saeros had gotten drunk at an official dinner while Legolas was away, the fields were coming along nicely and there were high expectations for a good harvest, Aegnor seemed quite smitten with a new apprentice in the healing wards, and so on.

Slowly, the tension left Legolas' body and he felt himself relax. His mind cleared of all but the soft voice of his father and the clean, fresh scent of healing herbs. His breathing was no longer rigid and forced, but deep and even. He found himself nodding off and abruptly jerked his head up, fighting to stay awake. His father gently clasped his shoulders and guided him down to his pillows.

"Rest, Legolas, do not fight this." There were so many battles that his son had no choice but to fight, this one was not necessary.

Legolas tensed again and held his breath for a moment when Thranduil began to stitch the wound, but refocused on his father's voice and relaxed again. His eyes slid shut, and he drifted off even before his father had finished.

Thranduil grabbed an ointment that would ease the ache of the bruises on Legolas' chest. He continued to speak softly as Legolas' eyes slid closed. Applying as little pressure as he could, he spread the ointment over the bruises. He could practically feel the tension leaving Legolas. As much as he did not like to see his son sleep with his eyes closed, he knew Legolas was exhausted. This rest was needed.

The only thing left to do was bandage the wound, but he did not want to wake Legolas to do that. Instead, the king settled into the chair. He would watch Legolas and ensure the wound was not disturbed. That way, it could be bandaged when he woke with no harm done. He retrieved the trade agreements and settled back into the chair at his son's bedside.

Legolas was more relaxed than Thranduil had seen him in months, and yet lines of pain and worry still adorned his face as he slept. Thranduil frowned. Their lives had not always been like this. He longed for the times of relative peace when Legolas trained with his bow for fun and not for war. This was not the world in which he wanted his son to grow up.

After his wife died, he distanced himself from everyone, his son included. At the time, he did not see this option as the easy way out. The easy way would have been to follow her to the Halls of Mandos or to set sail away from these shores to somewhere the pain could not follow. Her death cased him more pain than he had thought possible for anyone to bear. She was supposed to be safe; she was supposed to be with him always. And she had gone somewhere he could not follow without abandoning all of his responsibilities here—as a king and as a father—and he would not do that. But he did not know how to cope with that unyielding and unbearable pain, so much deeper and more intimate than the pain of wounds sustained in battle, so much worse even than the loss of his own parents so many years ago.

He loved her and protected her, and now she was gone and he would never be rid of the pain of that loss. He loved Legolas too, but he did not protect him. Instead, he sent him to the frontlines of this war in which they found themselves.

He too had known war in his youth, he never wanted this for his son. Now, darkness spread north into his lands from Dol Guldur. He could not be certain what evil resided there, but he knew it was bigger than spiders and orcs. Middle Earth was on the brink of…something. He knew not what, but he could feel the shifting of tides even without a ring of power in his kingdom.

In his own small part of Middle Earth, he tried to create a peaceful life for his people. First, with his wife at his side, and then with Legolas. And now he commanded his son into the most dangerous of situations. He did what he could to ensure his safety—he pushed Legolas to train constantly, to know battlefield strategy and lore, to be ever stronger and faster with every weapon. But this was no guarantee of safety, of course. Even relatively minor wounds such as this one served to remind him that immortality was no guarantee of forever.

Legolas shifted restlessly on the bed. His breaths coming in quick gasps. Thranduil waited, hoping his son would fall back into a deep, peaceful sleep, but, alas, it was not to be.

Legolas flinched, Thranduil was not certain if it was in response to real pain from his real wound, or imagined pain from whatever he was seeing in his dreams. Legolas muttered something that even Thranduil's sharp ears could not catch.

Thranduil sighed, putting aside the trade agreements again.

"Legolas," he said gently.

But Legolas did not wake immediately, he drew in a breath that sounded almost like a sob, and persisted in his unintelligible muttering, the words were too soft and indistinct for even elven ears to understand him. Then, Legolas murmured the names of some of those who had died. The abject pain and mourning in his tone caught Thranduil off guard.

Thranduil had frozen for a moment, but the sound of a choked off breath spurred him into action. He reached out and placed his hand on Legolas' shoulder, "Ion nin, wake up."

Legolas started, jerking awake. He reached reflexively for a weapon that was not there and moved as though he was about to strike out at anything near him. Thranduil grabbed his arms, steadying his son and halting his movements, afraid that the stitches would again be torn. He bit his lip at the flash of desperation that flashed in Legolas' eyes when he found his movements restrained.

"Legolas!" Thranduil said more forcefully. Legolas' eyes jerked to his father's and Thranduil saw the moment when Legolas threw off the nightmare and came back to himself and his surroundings, realizing he was safe.

"Forgive me," he said breathlessly as he quickly pulled his hands back down.

Thranduil brushed off his apology, eased his son back against the pillows, and turned to grab the bandages from before. He held them up, "Since you are awake, we might as well finish this."

Legolas nodded and sat up, he rested the arm on his injured side on his father's shoulder. Legolas sucked in a breath as Thranduil bound the wound tightly, and settled back onto the bed with a relieved sigh. He saw the now abandoned papers on his bedside table, "I'm sorry I disturbed you."

"I am not," Thranduil paused and considered his son. It was rare for them to have much time alone, and rarer still for Legolas to be vulnerable in those stolen moments. In sleep, he could not hide what he carefully disguised while he was awake.

Thranduil too was not one to show his emotions. But today, the lists of the dead weighed heavily on him. It could have been Legolas. It so easily could have been his son's name on one of those lists. He could have been the one notified of the loss of a dear loved one. Those thoughts left him feeling raw, which loosened his tongue more than the even finest Dorwinion wine. "Legolas, I never wanted this life for you. I meant for you to be raised in a time of peace. You have a gentle soul, ion nin. I often wonder if you would have chosen the path of a warrior had need not demanded it."

"I have found success in this path."

"Yes, but have you found happiness? I would see you happy."

Legolas considered this, was he happy doing this? "I am happy when I train with my bow, archery has always brought me joy," his eyes shifted to where his great long bow hung on the wall, "The warriors at my side also bring me happiness. The war, the loss of life, and the spoiling of our forest brings me sorrow. But what I might be doing but for the war matters not, I would not be happy doing anything else now. I could not see our people ride into battle while I remained behind."

"And I cannot send others' children into battle without also being willing to send my own. But for all of your victories, and all of the times you have returned home hale and whole, and even all of the times you have returned injured and recovered, I still fear for you every time you ride away from me."

"I fear for those who ride with me. I fear for those who will not ride home, for the ones I cannot keep safe," Legolas admitted.

"Our warriors are safer for your presence. Our victories greater and losses are fewer because of you. Whatever path you may have chosen, you are without question our greatest warrior and a worthy captain."

Legolas shook his head in protest, and Thranduil spoke again, "Do not deny the truth, my son. Your humility is one of your strengths, but do not doubt yourself. Ever. I will command it of you if I must."

Legolas chuckled.

Thranduil carefully eased him back against the pillows again, "For now, though, I simply wish for you to rest. When will you ride out again?"

"Soon, within the week I expect. With the current injuries, it will be a busy few months."

Thranduil frowned, "And what of your injuries?"

"Ada, you can see for yourself, it will heal quickly. It will not hinder me long. A day or so and it will be closed enough that it won't tear open again even if I move normally."

"Rest then, and you do not need to attend council meetings tomorrow. I will send runners to ensure you receive any updates you need. See to your warriors and yourself."

Legolas yawned, "Thank you," he murmured as his eyes slipped closed.

Thranduil settled back into his chair, pulling his papers back into his lap, content where he was.

Just one chapter left to wrap things up. See you next week!