Disclaimers: I don't own any of the characters or settings from Lord of the Rings or Xena the Warrior Princess

Author's Note:

This is a LegoRomance (slow-burn)


Act I

Lasgalen, the Little Leaf

Chapter 113: Meeting The King of Stone and Wood

Thranduil

Mirkwood, 3019 TA, May 31st

The grand halls of the Woodland Realm lay draped in a somber twilight, the fading rays of the sun filtering through the dense canopy above. Within these stone-hewn walls, Thranduil sat upon his throne, his face a marble mask of pride and distance, yet his silvered gaze reflected the weight of an eternity of burdens. He was no mere ruler; he was a sentinel of the ancient woods, a guardian whose existence spanned ages unfathomable to the mortal mind.

Born in the twilight of the First Age, Thranduil's life had been woven with both light and shadow. As the son of Oropher, he had once walked the verdant fields of Doriath, basking in the radiance of the Melian-maidens' songs. But that world had been unmade, swallowed by the wrath of war and time. He had witnessed the beauty of Beleriand drown beneath the waves and had carried the memory of its fall like a stone in his heart. When the Second Age dawned, he followed his father to the great Greenwood, a forest so vast and untouched it seemed an eternal refuge. Yet peace was a fleeting illusion.

Thranduil had inherited his father's kingdom after the ruinous Battle of Dagorlad, where Oropher had fallen, his Sindarin pride unwilling to submit to Númenórean command. Thranduil had stood among the survivors, drenched in the blood of orcs and elves alike, and vowed to protect his people—to shield them from the encroaching shadow that had taken so much. Greenwood the Great, once an unblemished jewel of Arda, became his sanctuary and his prison.

But time had a cruel way of reshaping the world. The forest darkened, its trees twisting under the oppressive will emanating from Dol Guldur. The Silvan Elves retreated into their halls, abandoning the once-vibrant paths for fear of the creeping shadows and venomous webs of monstrous spiders. Thranduil, ever the pragmatic king, withdrew with them, fortifying his underground palace against the onslaught of the Necromancer's influence. Yet even as he secured his realm, he knew this isolation came at a cost.

In the quiet moments, when the forest's whispers grew still, Thranduil allowed himself to remember. He remembered Lainathiel, his beloved queen, whose voice had once been his solace amid the storm of leadership. Her laughter had filled these halls, a melody of hope in a realm shadowed by despair. And he remembered how that light had been stolen. Lainathiel's capture by the dark forces of Dol Guldur was a wound that had never healed, a loss that had reshaped the king into the stoic figure he was now.

To his people, Thranduil was an enigma—aloof, severe, and unyielding. He commanded respect not through kindness but through an indomitable will. His halls, carved from the heart of the earth, mirrored his own duality: a blend of nature's elegance and the cold permanence of stone. But beneath the polished veneer of his rule lay a heart that bled for his realm. Every decision he made, every alliance he rejected, stemmed from a singular purpose: the survival of his people in an age teetering on the brink of ruin.

His son, Legolas, was the mirror that reflected his unspoken fears. Where Thranduil saw duty, Legolas saw freedom. The prince's adventurous spirit, his reckless bravery, stirred both pride and apprehension in his father. Thranduil recognized the fire of youth in Legolas, the same fire that had once driven Oropher to ruin. He sought to temper it, to mold it into a strength that could withstand the darkness. Yet, in doing so, he often found himself at odds with his son, their bond strained by the weight of expectations and unspoken grief.

As Thranduil sat upon his throne, the distant hum of a patrol returning from the forest broke his reverie. He straightened, his regal posture unyielding even as his thoughts turned inward. There was no rest for a king, not when the shadows grew darker with each passing day. His realm needed him—his people needed him. The Woodland Realm, scarred but unbroken, stood as a testament to his resolve. And Thranduil, the Elvenking, would endure. For that was his duty, his penance, and his unyielding vow.

Thranduil had endured countless sorrows in his long life—more than most could fathom. He had faced the loss of his beloved wife, her light consumed by shadow and twisted into a darkness that now haunted the edges of his realm. The whispers called her the Dark Queen, a cruel mockery of her once-radiant grace. He had borne the grief of knowing his son, Legolas, carried the unbearable guilt of the cause of his mother's downfall. And as a father, Thranduil had struggled with his own failings, unable to offer solace when it was needed most.

Yet through it all, Thranduil remained steadfast. The shadow that engulfed Mirkwood had not broken him, though it had tested him in every conceivable way. He had survived wars, alliances born of necessity, and the ever-looming darkness of Dol Guldur. The unthinkable had become his reality—seeking aid and forging bonds with the men of Dale and the dwarves of Erebor, once thought improbable, to stand united against the forces of Sauron. He worked alongside the lords of Lothlórien, Galadriel and Celeborn, in ways he would not have imagined a century ago.

In the midst of this, he had made a choice that no Elvenking before him would dare: to let his son follow a path far removed from the duties of a Woodland prince. Legolas had chosen to walk his own path, one that took him beyond the confines of Mirkwood and into the world beyond. It pained Thranduil deeply to see Legolas haunted by grief and guilt, shadows that no Elven wisdom or paternal love could fully dispel. Yet he knew Legolas—resilient, determined, and forever seeking to atone. The prince would find his way, as all Elves must in time.

Still, the changes in Legolas were difficult to reconcile. Thranduil had heard whispers of his son forging a friendship with a human ranger, the heir of Isildur no less, and even with a dwarf—an absurd notion for one of Elvenkind. And now, the most unexpected visitor had come to his halls: a human maiden, escorted not by Legolas, but by Haldir of Lothlórien. The rumors had reached his ears, tales from his loyal warriors—Elros, Thalion, and Mírdan—but he had dismissed them as idle talk. Now, curiosity burned within him.

The Elvenking sat upon his throne, his expression a practiced mask of calm authority. As the doors to his hall opened and the human stepped forward, he regarded her with piercing eyes, his mind already weighing the reasons for her presence. He resolved to hear her words before deciding her fate, though the thought of throwing her into the dungeons was not entirely off the table.

The halls of Thranduil's Woodland Realm were as magnificent as they were imposing, carved with an artistry that seemed almost alive. Xena followed Tauriel and Haldir down the stone corridors, lit by the soft glow of lanterns crafted to resemble natural blooms. The air was cool, and fragrant with the mingled scents of pine and moss. Tauriel walked beside Xena, her steps light but deliberate, her emerald gaze sharp with curiosity.

The young captain introduced herself, her voice carrying a hint of warmth beneath her formal tone. "I am Tauriel, Captain of the Guard of the Woodland Realm. Legolas is my...trusted friend. Do you know him well?"

Xena hesitated, her cobalt eyes flickering toward Tauriel. She thought back to the countless conversations she'd shared with Legolas, his occasional mentions of the elf who had grown alongside him. Tauriel holds a special place in my heart, he had once confided, his voice tinged with nostalgia and fondness. Recognizing the sincerity in Tauriel's expression, Xena chose honesty.

"I do," Xena admitted. "Legolas and I have been through much together. That is why I'm here. He's not doing well, Tauriel. He's troubled, and I believe it's beyond his own ability to bear. But I cannot say more—at least, not until I've spoken with the Elvenking."

Tauriel slowed her pace slightly, her sharp eyes studying Xena's face as if weighing her words. There was no deceit, only concern, and Tauriel's heart softened. She nodded, her voice gentler now. "I understand. If you speak to the king, I suggest you request a private audience. Thranduil can be...formidable, especially in the presence of others. He will listen more freely without the eyes of his court upon him."

Xena inclined her head in thanks. "I'll keep that in mind."

The group approached the grand doors of the throne chamber, which loomed tall and intricately wrought with scenes from Elven lore. Guards on either side stepped forward to open them, and Xena could not help but feel a flutter of nerves as the heavy doors swung inward.

Inside, the Elvenking's court awaited. Thranduil sat upon his throne, his silver hair cascading like a waterfall over his shoulders. His presence was as commanding as the forest itself—beautiful, ancient, and utterly unyielding. Around him were gathered his most trusted allies: Elros, Thalion, and Mírdan stood like statues, their piercing eyes scanning the new arrivals. To the side, his adviser Longon stood alongside his daughter Nîdhiel, whose serene expression gave no hint of the curiosity stirring behind her gaze.

Haldir moved forward with a grace befitting a Lord of Lothlórien, bowing deeply before Thranduil. "Elvenking," he said, his voice steady, "I come bearing tidings from our shared ally, Lord Elrond of Rivendell. And I bring Xena, a companion of Prince Legolas, who seeks audience with you."

Thranduil's icy gaze swept over Xena, lingering for a moment as if assessing her very soul. His tone, rich and measured, carried an undercurrent of steel. "You come to my halls, mortal, unbidden yet bold. Speak your purpose swiftly, for my patience is a fleeting thing."

Xena stepped forward, feeling the weight of every eye upon her. She glanced briefly at Tauriel, who gave her a subtle nod of encouragement. Gathering her courage, Xena addressed the Elvenking. "Your Majesty, I seek to speak with you regarding your son, Legolas. It is a matter of great urgency, but one I believe should be discussed in private."

The court stirred at her words, whispers rippling through the gathered elves. Thranduil raised a hand, silencing them instantly. His eyes narrowed slightly as he leaned forward, the faintest trace of intrigue flickering across his otherwise impassive face.

"And why," he asked, his voice low and laced with suspicion, "should I grant you such a privilege? You walk into my realm with secrets, mortal. Why not speak openly here, before all who stand as witness?"

Xena's jaw tightened, but she held her ground. Her voice remained calm, though there was an unmistakable edge of urgency. "Because, my lord, what I must say concerns only you and your son. To speak of it here would betray trust and perhaps worsen his plight. I mean no disrespect to your court, but this matter requires discretion."

Thranduil studied her for a long moment, the silence stretching thin. Finally, he rose from his throne, his movements fluid and deliberate. "Very well," he said, his voice carrying a note of finality. "Leave us. All of you."

The members of his court exchanged glances but obeyed without hesitation. Elros, Thalion, and Mírdan were the last to depart, their eyes lingering on Xena as if committing her presence to memory. Tauriel cast Xena a brief, reassuring look before slipping through the grand doors, which closed with a resonant thud.

Now alone with Thranduil, Xena felt the full force of his presence. He descended the steps of his throne, his movements slow and deliberate, until he stood just a few paces from her. "Speak," he commanded, his tone colder than the winds of the Misty Mountains. "What troubles my son, and why do you, a mortal, presume to bring this to me?"

Xena straightened her shoulders, meeting his gaze with a calm but determined expression. "Because, Your Majesty, I believe Legolas's torment stems from something beyond grief or guilt. It is deeper, darker. And I think it may be tied to a curse placed upon him long ago. If I am right, then he cannot bear this alone. He needs your aid—your wisdom."

For the first time, a shadow of something unspoken crossed Thranduil's face—fear, perhaps, or sorrow well-hidden. He gestured for Xena to continue, and as she spoke, her words began to peel back the layers of a mystery that had haunted Legolas and his father for centuries.

Before Xena spoke, she hesitated. Her hand moved instinctively to the pouch on her belt, her fingers brushing against the cool, intricate metal of the brooch. The ornate piece, shaped like a leaf with delicate veins traced in silver, was unmistakable—Lasgalen, the Little Leaf. Legolas had entrusted it to her, a token of faith, and a way to prove that her presence here was sanctioned by him. She drew it out and held it tightly for a moment, her gaze steady on the imposing figure of Thranduil. Taking a step forward, she offered it to him, her hand steady despite the weight of the moment.

Thranduil's keen eyes fell upon the brooch, his expression unchanging at first. But as recognition dawned, a flicker of something—nostalgia, sorrow—crossed his face. He took the brooch with deliberate care, turning it over in his hands. The light of the chamber caught its edges, casting faint reflections of silver on the walls.

"This is Lasgalen," Thranduil said softly, his voice quieter, almost reverent. "The Little Leaf. I had all but forgotten it. My wife made this herself, a gift for Legolas when he was but a child." His fingers traced the intricate etchings, as if trying to summon the memory of the day it was crafted. For a moment, his regal mask faltered, and a glimpse of the father beneath the king shone through.

But then his eyes rose to meet Xena's, sharp and questioning. "It was his—his most treasured keepsake. Why do you have it, mortal? What reason could there be for my son to part with such a thing?"

Xena straightened, the weight of Thranduil's scrutiny pressing heavily upon her. She knew this was a test as much as it was a question. Her voice was calm and respectful as she answered. "Legolas entrusted it to me, my lord. He asked me to bring it as proof of his trust in me and as a sign that I speak not only on my own behalf but with his blessing. He thought it might help you listen to what I have to say."

Thranduil's gaze hardened, though he did not interrupt. He studied her closely now, his piercing eyes taking in every detail—the finely wrought elven armor she wore, its craftsmanship betraying its origin from Rivendell, though it was clearly ill-fitted for her mortal form, leaving more exposed than an elven smith would usually allow. Her weapons, however, drew his keenest attention. The sword she carried bore a distinct design, one he recognized immediately.

"That blade..." he murmured, narrowing his eyes. "It is no mere weapon. It bears the mark of Eregion. How came you by such a thing?"

Xena hesitated briefly, her mind racing to choose her words carefully. "It is a relic," she explained. "A gift from another time and place, given to me for safekeeping. It has proven invaluable on my journeys, but its tale is long and not why I have come." She gestured gently toward the brooch. "This, my lord, is why I stand before you. Legolas trusted me to bring it to you so that you might believe in the urgency of my words. He is in trouble, deeper than even he may fully understand. I have come seeking your aid because no one else can help him as you can."

Thranduil's expression remained inscrutable, but his fingers tightened slightly around the brooch. The room seemed to grow colder, the silence heavy. When he finally spoke, his tone was measured, though there was a thread of emotion beneath the surface. "Legolas is no child, mortal. He has walked this world for centuries. He has faced trials that would break many others. What, then, could trouble him so deeply that it warrants your presence here and his sending of this?" He held up the brooch as if it were an accusation, its silver gleam catching the light.

Xena took a breath, steadying herself. "It is more than grief or guilt, my lord," she said, her voice low but firm. "There is something dark that clings to him—something that has taken root in his mind and heart. I believe it is the remnants of a curse, one that he has carried unknowingly for long. He hides it well, but it eats away at him. If it is not addressed, I fear it will consume him."

Thranduil's face darkened, his lips pressing into a thin line. He stepped closer, his towering presence almost overwhelming. "A curse?" he repeated, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "And you presume to know this because...?"

Xena met his gaze unflinchingly. "Because I've seen it. In his eyes, in his dreams, in the way he carries himself. He fights it, but it is not a battle he can win alone. You know him better than anyone, my lord. Tell me, have you not seen the signs yourself?"

For a long moment, Thranduil said nothing, the weight of her words hanging heavily in the air. His gaze drifted back to the brooch in his hand, his expression inscrutable. At last, he turned and ascended the steps to his throne, gesturing for Xena to remain where she stood.

"You have given me much to consider," he said, his voice returning to its usual cold formality. "If what you say is true, then Legolas has placed a great deal of trust in you—a trust I do not yet share. But for the sake of my son, I will hear more. Speak carefully, mortal, for your words will determine whether I grant you aid...or cast you from my halls."

Xena watched Thranduil ascend the steps to his throne, his movements fluid and regal, embodying the grace and authority of a king. As he seated himself, his expression returned to its impassive default, his sharp gaze fixed on her. For a fleeting moment, Xena had seen something familiar—an echo of Legolas. The same pride, tempered with arrogance, and the ability to pause and reason when it mattered most. Her lips curved into a faint, sad smile. Of course, she thought. He is his father's son.

When she spoke, her voice was steady. "He is truly your son," she said, her tone carrying the weight of her realization. "The way he weighs decisions, the way he listens even when he disagrees—it is clear now where he learned it."

Thranduil's piercing gaze did not waver. "You speak as though you know my son well," he replied, his tone neutral, though an undercurrent of skepticism lingered. "Yet trust is not something Legolas grants easily. Nor is it something I am inclined to offer without cause."

Xena inclined her head slightly, acknowledging the truth in his words. "It took time, my lord. Time and effort. Legolas did not trust me immediately, nor should he have. It is a bond that was earned, as all meaningful ones are." She paused before adding, "I imagine you already know this. Elros and the others must have told you as much."

Thranduil's expression flickered briefly—acknowledgment, perhaps, or curiosity. "They did," he admitted. "Elros spoke of your persistence, of how you proved yourself to my son. Legolas does not grant friendship lightly, and I trust Elros's judgment. Still, that does not explain why you are here or why you carry such grave tidings about my son."

Xena exhaled softly, weighing her next words. "Then I will not delay, my lord. If Elros has told you everything, you know that Legolas has been haunted by a shadow—a darkness that goes beyond mere nightmares. It nearly consumed him. Were it not for the intervention of Lord Elrond and Mithrandir, he might not have survived."

Thranduil's brow furrowed, his hand tightening around the brooch he still held. "They told me," he said quietly, his voice tinged with an emotion he did not name. "And I have sought answers—ridden far and wide to uncover the truth of this curse. Tell me, mortal, have you found what I could not?"

Xena hesitated. She had expected this question, but it was no easier to answer. "I believe I have," she said finally. "I rode south, to Harad. I infiltrated Khafir al-Rahûn's camp and forced him to tell me who had orchestrated the events that haunt Legolas. Who sent the hunters after him and why."

At the mention of Khafir, Thranduil's sharp gaze darkened. "And how," he asked coldly, "did you know where to look? Or whom to seek? Such knowledge does not fall into mortal hands by chance."

Xena met his gaze directly, her voice firm and without fear. "Because, my lord, I was sent to kill your son. That is how I met him. And in pursuing that contract, I uncovered who wanted him dead." Her words hung in the air, and the tension in the room thickened. "Khafir was merely a pawn—an apprentice to the one truly responsible."

Thranduil's grip on the armrest of his throne tightened, his knuckles whitening. "You were sent to kill my son," he repeated, his voice icy. "And yet here you stand, speaking of saving him. Explain yourself, mortal, and tread carefully."

"I will not lie to you, my lord," Xena said. "Legolas and I were enemies when we first met. But I learned the truth of him, just as he learned the truth of me. That is why he trusts me now. And that is why I knew Khafir would have answers." She stepped forward slightly, her voice steady but charged with emotion. "Khafir told me the name of the one behind it all. Alakar."

At the mention of the name, Thranduil's face became a mask of stone, though his eyes burned with a cold fire. "Alakar," he repeated, his voice a low growl. "He is no stranger to me. Once, he served Sauron—a creature of malice and cunning. He was the one who took my wife, twisted her into the dark queen that haunted Mirkwood. And now he seeks my son."

"Not just your son," Xena said. "He wants you. He wants your realm. Legolas is but a means to an end. That is why I am here—to warn you and to seek your help. Alakar is in Mirkwood, though I cannot say where. Together, we can find him and undo what he has done."

Thranduil rose from his throne with a deliberate grace, his silver hair shimmering like moonlight. His gaze bore into Xena, weighing her words, her purpose, and her very being. "You presume much," he said coldly. "This is my burden, not yours. And though you have taken great risks for my son, I will not allow you to meddle further in matters that concern the Woodland Realm."

He gestured sharply, and the grand doors opened. Elros and Tauriel entered, their expressions unreadable as they took in the tension in the room. "Take her to the dungeons," Thranduil commanded, his tone unyielding.

Xena's eyes widened slightly, but she did not resist as Elros stepped forward. "My lord—" she began, but Thranduil silenced her with a raised hand.

"You have said enough," he said. "Reckless as you are, you have risked much for my son. For that, you will not be harmed. But do not think I will allow a mortal to dictate the course of my actions."

Xena stood firm as Elros and Tauriel flanked her. Despite their presence, they hadn't yet drawn their weapons, clearly waiting for Thranduil's command. She held her sword at her side, her knuckles tightening around the hilt as her eyes locked with the Elvenking's. The cold disdain in his gaze only hardened her resolve.

Thranduil's expression remained impassive, though his voice was sharp and commanding. "You will lay down your weapon and accept my judgment. Do not test me, mortal. You cannot hope to prevail."

But Xena didn't lower her blade. Instead, she took a step forward, her voice low and charged with defiance. "Legolas doesn't have time for your games, Thranduil. I came here for your help, not to waste precious hours rotting in your dungeons."

Elros tensed beside her, his hand moving to the hilt of his blade, but Thranduil raised a hand, halting him. His icy gaze bore into her, assessing, measuring. "Your bravery borders on foolishness," he said, his voice cold and deliberate. "Stand down, and I may yet reconsider my decision."

Xena's answer came not with words but with action. With a sharp cry, she lunged forward, flipping through the air in a blur of movement, her war cry echoing through the chamber. She landed just before the throne, her sword now poised at Thranduil's neck.

Elros and Tauriel moved instantly, but Thranduil's gesture froze them in place. "Do not interfere," he said, his tone calm yet commanding. His pale eyes never left Xena's.

"Impressive," he said, his voice laced with faint amusement. "But reckless. You think you can threaten me in my own hall?"

Xena's blade pressed closer. "I'm not here to threaten, but I'm not going to be locked away while Legolas suffers. If you won't help me, I'll find Alakar myself."

Thranduil moved with blinding speed, his own sword flashing into his hand. He parried Xena's blade with a single, ringing stroke, forcing her back a step. The clash of steel reverberated through the throne room as their swords met again, Xena matching his strikes with agility and precision.

She leaped backward, using the momentum to hurl her chakram in a spinning arc. The whirling weapon screamed through the air toward Thranduil. In a fluid motion, he caught the weapon mid-flight, his fingers closing around it with an almost casual grace. He studied it briefly, his sharp eyes tracing the intricate design.

"A fascinating weapon," he remarked, a faint note of admiration in his voice. Then, with a flick of his wrist, he tossed it aside, the chakram clattering harmlessly against the stone floor. "But it will not save you."

Xena wasted no time. She closed the distance between them, her sword flashing in a series of swift, precise strikes. Thranduil met her every move with equal speed, his blade a blur of silver as it deflected her attacks. The room seemed to shrink around them, the intensity of their duel drawing all focus.

"You fight well for a mortal," Thranduil said as their swords locked, their faces inches apart. "But this is folly."

Xena gritted her teeth, pushing against his blade with all her strength. "Then stop wasting time and help me!"

With a sudden twist, she broke the lock and darted to the side, aiming a quick strike at his flank. Thranduil countered effortlessly, though not before the tip of her blade grazed his cheek, leaving a thin line of crimson. He paused, touching the wound with his fingers. For a brief moment, surprise flickered in his eyes, followed by a glint of respect.

"You are bold," he said, his tone cool. "And skilled. But this ends now."

He surged forward with renewed vigor, his strikes coming faster and harder. Xena struggled to keep pace, her movements growing more desperate. Finally, with a powerful downward slash, Thranduil disarmed her. Her sword clattered to the ground, and before she could react, his blade was at her throat.

The chamber fell silent, the tension thick in the air. Thranduil gazed down at her, his expression unreadable. "You have courage, mortal," he said, his voice low. "But you lack wisdom. This is not your fight."

Xena glared up at him, defiance still burning in her eyes. "It's Legolas's fight. And for him, I'll do whatever it takes."

For a moment, Thranduil said nothing. Then he lowered his sword, stepping back. "Elros," he called, his voice regaining its commanding edge. "Take her to the dungeons. Perhaps time in solitude will teach her restraint."

Elros hesitated, his gaze flickering briefly to Xena, then to Thranduil. At the king's nod, he stepped forward, taking hold of Xena's arm. Tauriel followed silently, her expression a mix of concern and resignation.

As Xena was led away, she glanced back at Thranduil. His face was a mask of cold authority, but for the briefest moment, she thought she saw something in his eyes—doubt, or perhaps the faintest glimmer of conflict.

For Legolas, she thought, her resolve unshaken. That is why I came. And that is why I will find a way out.

Elros, and Tauriel, led Xena through the dimly lit corridors of the Woodland Realm, the silence between them heavy and unyielding. Each step echoed faintly against the stone walls, a somber rhythm that mirrored the uncertainty in their hearts. Though none spoke, the tension was palpable—an unspoken conflict between duty and conscience.

When they reached the dungeons, the guards opened a heavy iron door, revealing the cold, stark confines of the cell. Elros gestured for Xena to enter, his expression unreadable. Without protest, she stepped inside, her head held high. Her weapons were placed carefully on a large table outside the cell, the gleam of her chakram and sword catching the flickering torchlight.

As the cell door clanged shut, Tauriel glanced at Xena, her emerald eyes betraying a flicker of regret. But she said nothing, merely nodding to the guards before following Elros and Haldir back up the corridor.

Back in the throne room, Thranduil leaned back in his seat, one hand idly tracing the cut on his cheek—a faint reminder of the human's unexpected skill. Elros, Hadril, and Tauriel stood before him, their faces composed but tense. Haldir remained to the side, his arms crossed, a rare shadow of frustration darkening his usually serene expression.

Tauriel was the first to speak, her voice steady but laced with conviction. "My lord, I must speak plainly, as one who values truth above comfort. It is a mistake to keep her imprisoned. Xena is not an enemy; she is Legolas's friend, sent here by him. Would you disregard the trust he placed in her?"

Thranduil's eyes narrowed slightly, though he said nothing. Elros stepped forward, his tone calm but resolute. "She has proven her skill and determination, my lord. Whatever her methods, she came here to help. If Alakar is truly in Mirkwood, Xena's talents would be invaluable in finding and defeating him."

The Elvenking's expression remained unreadable, though his gaze flicked briefly to Haldir. The Lord of Lothlórien, who had been silent until now, finally spoke.

"It is madness to keep her in the dungeons," Haldir said, his voice steady but firm. "I've seen her fight. She is a brutal force—a warrior who does not back down. If you do not trust her yet, that is understandable. But I believe her intentions are genuine. And while her escape earlier may seem reckless, her determination to protect Legolas is clear."

Thranduil's silver brows furrowed, his voice measured and deliberate. "Do not mistake her recklessness for valor," he said. "Alakar is no ordinary foe. He does not fight fairly; he exploits weaknesses. And Xena, with her mortal fragility, is a weakness we cannot afford. If Alakar were to use her against Legolas—or against me—it would spell disaster."

Tauriel opened her mouth to speak but closed it again, clearly torn between her loyalty to Thranduil and her belief in Xena. Elros, however, did not waver. "With respect, my lord, you underestimate her. Xena is no ordinary mortal. She would not allow herself to be used so easily, and her skills could turn the tide in this fight."

Thranduil's gaze sharpened, his voice colder now. "And if she falls into Alakar's hands? If her defiance leads her straight to him, what then? This is my burden to bear, not Legolas's and certainly not hers."

Haldir, ever composed, inclined his head slightly. "You are right, my lord. The responsibility is yours. But consider this: the mortal has already made her choice. She has taken risks that few would dare, all for the sake of your son. Can you truly deny her the chance to see this through?"

For a moment, silence hung heavy in the room. Thranduil's fingers brushed against the armrest of his throne as he considered their words. Finally, he let out a soft sigh, though his expression remained stern. "You all make fair arguments. But I will not allow her recklessness to jeopardize this fight. If she wishes to aid us, it will be on my terms—and under my watch."

Before he could issue further orders, the doors to the throne room burst open. A guard stepped inside, his expression strained.

"My lord," the guard said breathlessly. "The mortal—she has escaped. Through the wine cellars...like the dwarves did before."

Thranduil's eyes closed briefly, his jaw tightening as he exhaled through his nose. For a moment, he looked as though he might roll his eyes, but instead, he rose gracefully from his throne, his presence towering and unyielding.

"Of course she did," he muttered, more to himself than anyone else. Then, his voice rang out, sharp and commanding: "Go after her. Bring her back unharmed, and ensure she does not put herself in further danger."

As the guard hurried out, Thranduil turned back to the others, his expression colder than ever. "We must find Alakar before she does. If that mortal stumbles into his path, she will not survive."

Tauriel and Elros exchanged a brief glance before bowing and leaving to organize patrols. Haldir lingered for a moment, his gaze thoughtful as he studied the Elvenking. "You fear for her more than you admit," he said quietly.

Thranduil's expression darkened, though he did not respond. He turned away, his mind already racing with plans.

Meanwhile, Xena slipped through the dense undergrowth of Mirkwood, her eyes sharp and her movements swift. She had no intention of being caught, not when Legolas's life was on the line. As the distant sound of approaching footsteps reached her ears, she smirked faintly. You'll have to catch me first, Thranduil.

But even as she pressed on, a faint unease gnawed at her. Alakar was out there, somewhere in the shadows. And if she didn't find him soon, it might not be just her life at stake.

((Upcoming Chapter One-Hundred-Fourteen))

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