The coming of spring was late after the long, hard winter, but proved to be worth the wait. Warm sunlight finally sent its beams back through the budding treetops, dappling the forest floor in shades of gold. The Greenwood around the stronghold was in full bloom. The scent of flowers, sweet, fresh and alive, filled the air, so saturated that warm breezes carried it all the way into the underground tunnels of the Woodland Realm. The wood-elves rejoiced at the renewed coming alive of their woods. Fresh energy coursed through them, everyone suddenly moved with a new spring in their step, smiling faces, bright eyes. Celebrations abounded, the elves dancing under the trees late into the night.

Thranduil was happy for his people, who deserved no less; but to him, there was something treacherous and perfidious about the perceived idyll. His connection to the trees ran deeper than most. He could feel that the bliss was superficial. His people made merry; Thranduil watched, and waited.

And the rejoicing was, as expected, short-lived. The woods were not the only thing to spring back to life after the melting of the snow. More and more reports of troops of orcs crossing through their part of the forest reached them from the returning patrols. Always they seemed to be heading south. The spiders seemed to be coming back too; not since the abandonment of Dol Guldur had they been seen in such numbers. Thranduil tried to remain calm in the face of the growing dread in his mind, one that this illusion of springly wholesomeness was not enough to repel. He doubled down on the border watch and sent patrols to the old fortress to investigate. Deep in his heart, he already knew though: the shadow had returned to his woods. Somehow. After barely a decade.

All the wood-elves felt the threat. The mood in their realm grew more subdued even as activity increased. It took all the self-control Thranduil could muster to keep to the palace and put on a show of unwavering strength and control when all he wanted to do was to run out into the woods himself and slaughter as many orcs as he could find. His warriors were valiantly defending their home, but the urge to slice, cut, kill, drain the hated beings of their blood, see them squeal, watch them writhe and squirm and suffer, before taking all they had left was becoming close to overwhelming. He knew it would be folly, and perhaps even playing into their hands, but he was not sure how much longer he would be able to hold back from going on a killing spree. It was the only thing he could envision providing him with some form of relief. He ordered Beleghîr to have his troops bring orc prisoners back to the stronghold alive to be interrogated; it was a tactically justified move, but Thranduil found dreams of personally torturing the foul creatures into talking invading his sleep. He wanted information, but not as much as he wanted to take revenge on the filth who had taken so much from him.

Legolas was hardly better. His son had always been eager to put himself on the front lines and in the midst of the action when their home was under threat, and now his hands were even more tied than the king's own. Thranduil could see he was trying to compensate by spending even more time in the armory, working at least as much as the weapons masters, but his body's resilience to even that limited amount of strain was diminished and it soon began to take its toll. A week's worth of working long hours would, it seemed, be taxed with nearly the same amount of time in bed, feverish and drugged nearly into oblivion much of the time. Thranduil begged him to pace himself, to take rest regularly, but he knew he might as well be talking to the wall. Legolas had never possessed the ability to stop anything at a reasonable time on his own, no matter what he was doing. He had always relied on others to remind him when enough was enough. But the fact that it was his own body making him stop, constantly, before he was anywhere near ready, was still, even after all this time, a bitter pill for him to swallow.

So Legolas was forced, much like his father, to more or less passively witness the returns of the first of the spring patrols. Those that had first ventured closest to the old fortress all reported a strong presence of orcs, but could say nothing for sure about their leader.

Thranduil waited grimly for confirmation of what he already knew, rather than expect news of some novel foe. The enemy had returned. The fortress was reoccupied. The next returning units, these less unscathed than the ones before, brought the confirmation he sought. Ulaer. Not the Dark Lord himself, but some of his most faithful servants. Apparently building an army, venturing into the mountains to recruit escaped orcs, capture trolls and any number of other foul creatures to enslave, if Legolas' last encounter was anything to go by.

Thranduil kicked at walls. He got his orc prisoners, and let them feel the full force of his wrath before ending them. The morbid satisfaction he felt while drenching the ground with their blood was short-lived, and he felt no better afterwards; worse, if anything. Sitting ducks were no replacement for an actual battle. He kept going through the motions of what was expected of him, remaining the impassive Elvenking, a pillar of strength for his people in dire times. He had had plenty of practice. He set up safe perimeters, sent emissaries to Esgaroth to exchange news, gave speeches, thanked and honored his warriors. Inside though, he was very close to snapping, to going off to single-handedly confront the Ulaer. He would already have done, had it not been for Legolas.

Because even Thranduil was beginning to prepare for the inevitable. Legolas was miserable, he was not healing, and he was going to leave him before long. Fairnathad had at long last managed to have an entire honest conversation with the king about the state of his son's health.

"Thranduil, Legolas cannot go on like this", he had accosted him one late afternoon in his study, summoning all his resolve to not let himself be dismissed.

Thranduil rounded on him, his eyes blazing with anger. This was going to be hard.

"Be careful with your assumptions", he spat. "He is stronger than you know."

"I do not doubt his strength", Fairnathad continued bravely. "He continues to fight, but everybody has their limits. He is suffering. His injuries are not healing, nor is his pain getting any less. You know this."

Thranduil had turned away from him as he spoke. Fairnathad could hear the king breathing heavily, his head bowed. The healer forced himself to remain still and wait without retracting anything he had said.

Finally, a quiet reproach. "You said he would never stop healing."

"I was trying to be optimistic. I exaggerated", Fairnathad forced himself to admit. "It was a possibility, but it has been long enough to see that no meaningful healing will happen without intervention. I am truly sorry, aran-nîn, but it is time to accept this and decide how to move forwards. For your son's sake."

Thranduil kept his back turned, hunched over, resting his chin on one of his hands. He looked suddenly intensely fragile, though the tension in his body was visible. Fairnathad took a step towards him, then hesitated, almost afraid to approach further. It was impossible to say whether the Elvenking would allow himself to be comforted, or lash out further. Fairnathad decided to wait and see.

Slowly, after what seemed like an age, the king lifted his head. "I cannot go with him", he said wearily, keeping his back turned.

Fairnathad felt a stab of compassion. It seemed safe to approach. He took another step toward Thranduil and placed a hand on his shoulder.

"Sailing is not the only option", he said quietly. "I have tried to speak to you about Mithrandir –"

"Yes, well speaking about Mithrandir is not going to fix anything, is it", Thranduil muttered sourly. "If Aiwendil does not know of his whereabouts, I do not know how else to locate him. If he turns up here, I will certainly try to persuade him to do what he can. But I cannot make him appear if he does not wish to."

Fairnathad took a deep breath and pressed on. "There are also the other ring-bearers. Their locations are known. Send for aid, aran-nîn."

Thranduil scoffed, turned briefly to throw the healer a dirty look, then stepped away from his touch, pacing back and forth.

"When have either of them deigned to leave their cushy armchairs?", he sneered derisively. "Or been interested in the fate of their lesser kin? Oh, I am sure they would be quick enough to aid each other, or any of the precious edain Elrond of Imladris deems worthy, but my people have never figured on their lists."

Fairnathad sighed. Thranduil was grossly over-simplifying, as usual, but he knew better than to argue with the king on this particularly sensitive topic.

"Even if that is true", he said, as diplomatically as possible. "I do not think Lord Elrond would deny you or your kin aid if you actively seek it. Especially Legolas. Is he not friends with the Elrondionath? And known to Lord Elrond since he was an elfling?"

"If his lordship can even remember anything about us. Not that he needs to pay much attention to anything happening around him, he has a ring to do that for him."

"Thranduil", Fairnathad said patiently, watching the king's pacing grow more aggressive as his old jealousy of the ring-bearing High Elves resurfaced. "This is about Legolas. Not Lord Elrond, nor anybody else. Your opinion of them should be irrelevant in this matter. He needs help, and if there is a chance that they can give it, you should do whatever you can to get it to him."

Thranduil shot him a sharp look. Fairnathad swallowed. The king was unused to being talked to in this way, and would not normally tolerate it. But, Fairnathad reasoned, he was not currently addressing him as his king.

For a moment, it looked as though Thranduil was going to begin tearing into him - in fact he was probably considering it - but then the king's face and composure crumpled and his body seemed about to fold in upon itself. Fairnathad was at his side in an instant, gripped him firmly by the arm and led him to the nearest chair. Thranduil sank into it, hunching forward, his face in his hands. Fairnathad crouched down next to him, a hand on the armrest of the chair.

For a while, they sat in silence, disturbed only by the king's heavy breathing.

"He is getting worse, isn't he", Thranduil murmured into his hands after a while.

Fairnathad winced. So his friend's denial was only superficial after all.

"He may be", Fairnathad confirmed carefully. "The fevers are growing more frequent. I fear his body is trying to combat the lingering inflammation. I am going to stop all rehabilitation attempts, there is no improvement and they are only putting more strain on him."

Thranduil nodded, still not lifting his head.

"And you think he will continue to decline", he said hoarsely.

"Perhaps. It does not seem unlikely at this point", the healer acknowledged quietly. "His body is weakening, as is his resolve. You know him; he will continue to fight as long as he can, but it would be unkind to let him do so indefinitely. Or until it claims him."

"I will try harder to find Mithrandir. Send messengers to Aiwendil, explain what it is regarding, perhaps he can find something out from the birds", Thranduil murmured. "And I can try to contact Imladris."

"Good", Fairnathad said softly.

Again they sat in silence for a while, the king seemingly unable to rise from his hunched-over position.

"You should talk to him", Fairnathad added gently. "Make sure he understands that he has your support no matter what. Even if he decides to sail." He paused. "He does, does he not?"

Thranduil nodded into his hands.

"He seems to think you will be … displeased", Fairnathad said carefully. "Or that it will destroy you."

Thranduil looked up from behind his hands. "He said that?"

Fairnathad nodded.

"Well", said Thranduil thoughtfully. He broke off and did not continue.

"It will not", Fairnathad said firmly. "And even if he is not entirely wrong to be worried, it would be kinder to conceal that from him. This is not about you, Thranduil. He has to make this decision for himself, and you know how hard that is for him even without added guilt. Let him know that you want him to do what is best for him, that you will be alright, that you will join him one day. Which you will."

Thranduil sighed and leaned back in the chair. He stared thoughtfully at the ceiling. "I have been selfish", he said softly.

Fairnathad shrugged. "You were trying not to give up on him", he said. "And it is good, we did everything we could to encourage healing. But it is time to accept that it is not helping him anymore."

Thranduil nodded slowly, lowering his head back into his hands. He ran his hands over his face and sighed wearily, the thousands of years he had lived suddenly showing.

"I will speak with him."