With his quiver finally off and lain across his lap, Legolas leaned his back against the tree trunk and felt its giving warmth through the bark. He sat on one of the highest branches, and dangled his leg in the open air, letting it sway. Once the breaths of his comrades down below fell into that slow, gentle rhythm of sleep, he could finally take his post as the unofficial watchman of the group, drinking up the blessed moment of solitude he so rarely got these days. He could feel with each exhale as the muscles of his back and neck began to release and hadn't even realized until that moment he had been tense all day. He wasn't used to being around so many people, all day long. At least not since last year.

Once, he couldn't ever get enough of it. The people, the chaos, the stress that could either stop your heart or make it pound in a way that carried music through your veins. Back then, he never wanted to stop, never wanted a break. Patrol captain, archery guard trainer, holding an important political role in the realm. Not quite the King's second in command, but somewhere close. And always his pupil, being called to his war room at any hour of the day or night by a pale, breathless aid who no doubt was ordered to run halfway across the kingdom to summon him.

And his friends. In the Mirkwood realm, Legolas was beloved. Every parent of his patrol team effectively adopted him into their own family, as an honorary son. His teammates were more brothers and sisters to him than his subordinates. He was so young when his mother was killed, when his father retreated into himself and into the defense of his kingdom. When Thranduil lost his softness, and became a man obsessed. The mothers seemed to feel sorry for this poor orphan boy, and he spent more and more time rotating between their homes, playing with their children.

Until he had to grow up, become the man and prince he was expected to be, to spend less time with these moony-eyed women and more time learning about geopolitics, cultural affairs, trade, and most importantly defense. Less time was spent being loved, more time being lectured to by his father in frenzied, harried fits of random and intense energy that would be almost frightening if they didn't end just as suddenly as they'd began.

They were there for him again, those mothers. Last year, when he couldn't breathe, didn't think he could survive, the pain was so bad. Sometimes he was pulled inside one of the familiar homes as he passed by, arms wrapped tightly around him, no word needing to be spoken. And once the door closed and he knew it was safe, he buried his face deep in their chests and clung onto their clothing with tight fists and gasped for breath between each desperate, muffled sob. And then after a few moments like this, his brain did what it always did so well- a veil of numbness dropped down, he suddenly didn't need to cry anymore. He'd pull away, wipe the tears, give each stunned mother a grateful and sheepish smile, and hurry away to where he was supposed to be.

And they knew to keep quiet. As did his guard. They saw how he fell apart that day. His own sergeants, life-long friends, had to pull him off her body for their own mutual safety. They had to take care of him the entire journey back to Mirkwood. Those days were a blur to Legolas. He remembered flashes if he concentrated. He remembered someone helping him up on his horse, placing the reigns into his limp hands while he stared down at them, unable to recognize what they were. He remembered begging his patrol to turn back, maybe it's safe now. And they all jumped up from around the fire, pushing him back, "no, no!' they all shouted at him. And he remembered some of them leading him back to his bedroll, where, once he gave in, he cried so hard that he'd pass out from exhaustion into the most fitful, surreal sleep he'd ever known.

But once they crossed the boundary of the kingdom, an unspoken agreement was made. It was back to business as usual. They'd be there for training, or mission planning, or in the debriefing halls, professional as ever and never saying a word. Lord Thranduil, the wisest elf in the realm, was totally oblivious.

Legolas realized, out here, he could let go. He could let the stress of that burdensome secret slip away in the cool evening breeze. He looked up at the twinkling stars who knew everything and didn't mind at all, they loved him anyway. Throughout the days, he still carried that tension, when a tree or pillar took on the familiar outline of his father in the corner of his eye, and his breath would catch for a moment. But then he'd look over, see it was just a tree, and remember where he was, and how Mirkwood was hundreds of miles away. In the nights, when all was still and quiet again, he could bask in the calm and let the frayed edges of his mind begin to mend.

Legolas looked down at the sleeping forms, and still felt a tightness in his chest. Although not conscious, they were still there, so oppressively close. The curious but overwhelming eyes of the halflings, the incessant questions from the man, the snide comments from the dwarf. Things that would normally amuse and engage him now made him want to hide.

Perhaps Elrohir was right, this was too much. His once jovial face and shining eyes so serious as he implored the prince not to do this. You can run from your ghosts, but they will always find you, he said. And maintaining a concealed identity long-term was foolhardy. He joked that was what made faint lines form in the skin around Estel's eyes, but his smile was forced when he said that. And worse yet was the wrath of Thranduil. Legolas knew it was selfish, to put that on the twins. To ask them to be the messengers. He never meant to place such a burden on them, it was just a target of opportunity. They were the only ones he felt comfortable to confide in with this insane idea. And he knew how adept they were at keeping secrets and rumors from finding their way to Elrond. Better for them to be the sole keepers of this information, rather than an untrustworthy source that could let it escape and find its way to the Lord of Imladris unabated.

Legolas squeezed his bow and felt that familiar twinge of resentment. His father would manage without him. It's not, in fact, vitally important that he learn and prepare constantly. This war his father was always preparing for, always seemed to see just over the horizon, may in fact never come to the Woodland realm. Not at least if their mission to deliver the ring were to be successful. He could imagine his father, flanked by his most skilled warriors, storming over the prairies to find him and drag him back. Giving him a long lecture about abandoning his people and abdication of duty. But what duty did he have there? What did Thranduil actually trust him to do? No, his purpose was here. His skills could actually be used to their fullest on this mission.

Legolas was not a strategist, a diplomat, or even a decent platoon commander. He spent his youth on small, stealthy patrols in the intricate web of trees. The places that would frighten and confound most made him feel alive. He found he felt most free, his senses most heightened, while running and weaving through the branches, high above invaders and the monsters of the woods, dropping down on them to deliver the lethal blow before they even realized he was there. He worked best with small teams, where he could build a rapport and a true sense of kinship and trust. He wanted friends, not subjects.

But that was the problem, wasn't it? He indulged this childish preference for too long, became too close. Fell in love, and had to keep the impact she had made on him both in life and in death a secret, and was very well his undoing. And further divided the chasm between Legolas and his father since it was just easier to avoid him rather than face falling apart in front of him. Legolas could bear most of what his father said and thought about him, but disappointment? Shame? Why was the prospect of that so intolerable? Why was facing that so bad he had to run?

Feeling flush with shame, he gathered his weaponry and glided down the tree, branch to branch, making no sound at all. He looked around once more and listened. Once the trees assured him all was well and no one else was coming, he hurried away from camp, toward the sound of rushing water. The river sparkled in the moonlight and felt cold and refreshing when he splashed the water on his face. He looked down at his hands and saw they were shaking. He held them down in the rushing water once more, closed his eyes, and took slow breaths.