Chapter Text
The white stones of the citadel had kept the morning’s coolness, even at the height of the day. In the high halls of Minas Tirith, sunlight cast pale reflections on elven tapestries, hung in honor of King Thranduil’s arrival.
He had come two days earlier, with a small retinue. His presence—rare—was welcomed with honor, but also a certain reserve. He disliked stone, had little taste for human feasts, and his gaze often pierced deeper than he let on.
That day, Aragorn, Gimli, and Thranduil were gathered in a small room of the palace, around a modest fire. Dried fruits and elven wine lay untouched on a low table.
Their conversation had wandered through diplomacy, trade routes, and the security of Ithilien. Then it had waned. Silence settled in, and Thranduil let it grow, as if waiting to be forced to speak.
At last, Aragorn broke the heavy quiet.
“You never come without reason, Lord Thranduil. And it isn’t Minas Tirith you’ve come to see.”
Thranduil slowly raised his eyes to the man he had once known as a child in Rivendell. His gaze was not hostile—it was weary. Ancient.
“I was curious. To see what my son has chosen.”
Gimli, arms crossed, grunted.
“He chose peace. And friendship. He stood with us through war and after. He is free, isn’t he?”
“He is,” Thranduil replied softly. “But elven choices carry a weight few of you can understand.”
Aragorn straightened slightly in his seat.
“I was born among your kind. I grew up in your halls, drank your wine, learned your songs. I know what too-deep an attachment can cost. I know what it cost Arwen.”
Her name hung in the air for a moment.
Then Aragorn continued, more quietly:
“What are you trying to suggest?”
Thranduil did not answer at once. He turned his gaze toward the tall stone windows.
Then he said:
“It is a rare thing. Very rare. Even among us. Arwen was Elrond’s daughter, and her choices were made possible by her blood. She accepted mortality for your love. But Legolas…”
He paused—a long, painful silence.
“Legolas did not fall in love with a woman. He fell in love with the two of you. With mortals. Hobbits, man, and dwarf.”
Gimli flinched. Aragorn remained still, breath caught.
Thranduil continued, his voice lower:
“Not romantic love. But a bond beyond what we can bear. Elves love the world, yes. They can cherish mortals, honor them, even grow close. But they must never, ever anchor their heart to a short-lived flame. Because when that bond is true, when it runs deep… it becomes a chain. And when its source fades…”
He looked at each of them in turn.
“…The heart cannot bear it. It breaks.”
Gimli lowered his head. His fingers trembled, clenched against the wood of the armrest.
“Then why... why didn’t he tell us?”
Thranduil gave a small shrug. So elven. So weary.
“Because he loves you. He did not want you to bear this burden. He thought he’d wait, until you were gone… and fade quietly. Like a leaf fallen from a tree too old.”
Aragorn stood—slowly, as if it hurt. He walked to the fire and spoke without turning.
“He does not know what it is to grow old. He doesn’t know the cruelty of watching your friends leave one by one.”
He paused, then added:
“And we… we didn’t know what it meant to be immortal, and love mortals so deeply that you bind your own life to theirs.”
Thranduil said nothing. But his eyes had lost their light.
After a long silence, Gimli stood too. His voice was rougher than usual.
“He must be the one to tell us. Not you.”
Thranduil nodded slowly.
“He will only speak if you force him. He believes silence is a form of love. That keeping this from you protects you.”
Aragorn finally turned to him. His gaze held pain—but something else, too.
Resolve.
“Then we will speak to him. Tonight.”
Night had fallen over Minas Tirith, cloaking its rooftops and high walls in deep blue. The evening wind slipped through the white stones, carrying the scent of old ashes and distant Ithilien flowers.
On one of the city’s highest rooftops, away from prying eyes, an elf sat—legs crossed, back straight, eyes lost to the West.
Legolas.
He hadn’t moved in hours. His gaze pierced the horizon, where the light was swallowed by the dark. He could not see the sea, but he could hear it. He could feel it. And more than ever, it called to him. Not like a song—but like an open wound, pulsing with each wave.
The throb of absence.
He did not move when Thranduil stepped onto the roof behind him, silent. Only the soft rustle of an elven cloak revealed his presence.
“You seek something you refuse to take.”
The king’s voice was calm—without judgment or anger. Just the sorrow of a father.
Legolas didn’t answer. He closed his eyes for a moment.
“It’s louder here,” he murmured at last. “The sound. The call. There are fewer trees. Less ancient life to drown it out.”
Thranduil stepped closer and sat beside him. They remained in silence for a while—two immortals seated atop a city of mortals, surrounded by memory.
“You haven’t told them,” Thranduil said. It wasn’t a question.
“No.”
“Why?”
Legolas inhaled, then finally opened his eyes.
“Because they would try to stop me. They would try to convince me to leave.”
He lowered his head.
“And I don’t want to. I can’t. Leaving this world without them… that’s what I couldn’t bear.”
Thranduil closed his eyes. He had feared these words. Guessed them. But hearing them from his son struck with silent violence.
“You’ve made your choice,” he whispered. “Like Arwen.”
“No. Not quite. Arwen had a heart full of fire, and a man to love. I have… them. I have Gimli’s laughter, loud as if the world had never known war. I have Aragorn’s eyes, always carrying the weight of those he leads. I carry their memories in me. And I know that when they go…”
He broke off, throat tight.
“…I will go too.”
Thranduil reached out and placed a hand on his son’s forearm. A rare gesture.
“You could have sailed. You were meant to.”
“I didn’t want to.”
The wind grew stronger. Below, the city slept, unaware of the gravity suspended above.
“Then you will die here,” Thranduil said bluntly.
Legolas didn’t answer.
But his eyes gleamed.
Thranduil looked at him—this son born of an ancient spring, raised among golden branches, shaped in starlight and the hush of trees.
And yet, he was broken.
He bore no wounds, but Thranduil knew. He had seen that gaze before. In Elrond’s eyes, after Arwen’s choice. In Galadriel’s mirror. And now, in Legolas.
A choice. An abyss.
“You think me cold,” he said at last. “That I never understood why you followed that ranger, that dwarf, that fate. You think I held you back out of pride.”
Legolas said nothing.
“But I didn’t want to let you go because I knew you wouldn’t come back. Not really. Not whole.”
“I love them.”
Thranduil closed his eyes.
When he spoke again, his voice carried something older.
“You are an elf, Legolas. Born of a world where time eats away at nothing. And you want to die. For lives that flicker only briefly before fading.”
“Then what would you have me do?” Legolas whispered. “Let them die without me? Sail west and sing while their dust drifts in the wind?”
Thranduil didn’t answer.
“You’ve taken my son from me,” he said at last. “And they won’t even know what they’ve cost you.”
He stood.
“You are free. But don’t expect my blessing. I am a king. And I am a father. And tonight, I have the heart for neither grace, nor forgiveness.”
And he left.
But the wind stayed with him.
Always, it carried the sea.