Chapter Text
Legolas woke with a sharp intake of breath, the sound torn from his chest before he could stop it.
Darkness pressed close around him. The chamber was still, hushed in that deep hour before dawn when even the forest seemed to hold its breath. His heart raced, pounding so fiercely he pressed a hand to his sternum as though to anchor it there, to remind himself that he was awake, that the stone beneath him was solid, that Greenwood yet stood.
But the dream clung to him.
Fire.
Not the clean burn of a forge or hearth, but a devouring flame that climbed bark and leaf alike, turning ancient trunks into pillars of cinder. The forest screamed as it burned. He had heard the spiders before he saw them, their skittering a living tide, bodies crowding and overlapping, choking roots and pathways, pouring from the shadows until the ground itself seemed to move.
And above it all, that cry.
High and piercing, sharp enough to split thought from breath. A sound that did not belong to any living throat, that cut through the air like a blade and left only terror in its wake. He knew it. He had always known it. The cry of the Nazgûl, and the will behind it.
Khamûl.
Just before he woke, just before the fear became unbearable, the world had narrowed to a single point of vision. An eye, rimmed in fire, unblinking and vast, its gaze burning through forest and flesh alike. Voices had whispered from the dark, mocking and cold, promising ruin in tones too ancient to belong to any one tongue.
Then nothing.
Legolas dragged in another breath, slower this time, forcing the tremor from his hands. Sweat cooled against his skin. His hair clung damply at his temples. He reached instinctively to his side, to the space that should have been warm with another’s presence.
It was empty.
He sat up, drawing the thin coverlet around himself, listening to the quiet of the halls. No answering breath. No steady heartbeat. Only the distant rustle of leaves far below, and the faint creak of wood as Greenwood shifted in its sleep.
He was alone.
It had been years since he had last woken with Elrohir beside him. Too many years. Eight, if he counted them honestly. Eight years since duty had drawn them apart, since a message had come from Imladris bearing word of Arathorn’s death and Elrond’s summons. Elrohir had gone at once, as he must, to stand beside his father and brother, and to guard the child who now lived hidden under another name.
Estel.
Legolas closed his eyes briefly, the image rising unbidden. A boy with dark hair and steady eyes, captured in charcoal and ink by Elrohir’s careful hand. He had studied those sketches countless times, tracing familiar lines with his gaze. Not merely Arathorn’s son, but the echo of generations he had known and loved. Araglas. Arahad. Aragost. And many more; men of Elros’s line who had walked beside him in other years, now gone.
Arathorn’s death still ached like an old wound. A good friend, lost too soon.
He rose and crossed the chamber to the open window, letting the cool night air wash over him. Somewhere to the south, beyond the darkened hills and the long memory of the forest, Dol Guldur stirred. He felt it as he always did now, a pressure behind the eyes, a wrongness that never truly slept. He knew the truth of it, had known it for centuries, long before others dared speak the name.
The Necromancer was Sauron. And he was not idle.
Legolas rested his hands on the stone sill, his gaze fixed on the paling stars as the night slowly loosened its hold. He and Elrohir wrote to one another often, their letters crossing leagues of forest and river and mountain, carried by hands that knew nothing of the weight those pages bore. Elrohir wrote of the child’s laughter, bright and sudden, of scraped knees and stubborn questions asked with unflinching seriousness. He wrote of quick hands that learned too fast, of a temper that flared and passed like summer lightning, and of the careful patience required to guide a boy who was already more than he understood himself to be.
Elrohir wrote of duty, too. Of long watches and quiet halls, of standing in the shadow of his father’s foresight, and of the ache that came with choosing stillness when every instinct called for motion.
And always, he wrote of love.
Legolas read those words until he could trace them in memory alone. He lifted the parchments to his face, breathing in the faint scent of ink and travel, of places touched by Elrohir’s hands. He pressed a kiss to the pages, as he always did, knowing that Elrohir always ended his letters the same way. A kiss sent across the miles. A promise folded carefully between lines of script. Legolas returned them faithfully, lingering there for a moment longer than necessary, as though devotion itself might shorten the distance between them.
He wrote truthfully in return. Of Greenwood and its deep, listening silence. Of his father’s counsel and their quiet disagreements. Of the watch along the southern eaves of the forest, where the air lay heavy, and the trees seemed reluctant to speak.
But he did not write of the dreams: not of the fire that devoured leaf and limb or the spiders that choked the forest floor. Not of the eye that burned and watched and waited.
He would not draw Elrohir away from his charge. Not for fear. Not even for fear like this.
The quiet pressed in again once his breathing had steadied, the weight of the forest settling around him like a held breath. Legolas returned to his bed then, sitting against the headboard, the faint grey of approaching dawn just beginning to touch the edges of the room. In that stillness, his thoughts turned, as they so often did, to his father.
His relationship with Thranduil remained what it had always been. Loving. Familiar. Marked by a deep, unspoken understanding that needed no ceremony. Their conversations were often edged with dry wit, mischief, a shared humor honed over centuries, and an affection that did not lessen in the face of disagreement. Legolas had never doubted his father’s love, nor his own in return.
And yet there were matters upon which they did not stand together.
When Smaug had come down upon Erebor, fire raining from the sky and the Lonely Mountain falling in a single terrible night, Legolas had believed Greenwood should have answered. Not with war, but with aid. With shelter. With open roads for those driven from their homes. He had spoken of the Dwarves’ ruin and the cost of turning away from it, of how suffering unacknowledged had a way of returning, sharpened by time.
Thranduil had not agreed.
His father spoke then of history, of old grievances that had never truly faded. Of the Dwarves’ pride and the harm it had wrought, again and again. He reminded Legolas that the fall of Erebor had not been Greenwood’s doing, and that their people would not be drawn into the consequences of another realm’s folly.
There was also the matter of the gems.
Long before the dragon’s fire, Thranduil had sent a necklace of pale stones north to Erebor, wrought for his queen in years now lost, entrusted to Dwarven hands for repair. It had never been returned. Whether lost beneath Smaug’s hoard or scattered in the ruin that followed, it remained another quiet wrong added to an already long memory. When Thranduil spoke of it, his voice held no fury, only a bitterness edged with grief that Legolas understood all too well.
Still, understanding did not mean agreement.
Since that time, his father had turned Greenwood inward, closing what had once been open. The forest’s name beyond their borders had changed, spoken now with fear as Mirkwood, and Thranduil had accepted the isolation that followed. Trade diminished. Roads were watched, then barred. Leaving the forest required leave from the king, a rule that applied even to his son. The world beyond the trees, Thranduil had said more than once, was no longer their concern.
Legolas lay back against the pillows, staring into the dimness above him. He loved his father. He always would. But the certainty had taken root in him all the same, quiet and unyielding, that the world beyond Greenwood could not be ignored forever. Shadow did not respect borders, and fire did not stop at the edge of the trees.
The forest slept around him, deep and ancient.
When the light beyond the windows had softened into a pale, tentative grey, Legolas finally rose. He dressed without ceremony, choosing a simple tunic, well-worn and familiar, and soft boots pulled on with quiet care. He took no weapons from their place along the wall. There was no need for them here, not beneath his father’s roof, where stone and forest alike stood as sentinels.
The sitting room lay just beyond his chamber, a space long shared between them. It bore no mark of formality, only the quiet imprint of centuries lived side by side. The hearth dominated the room, its embers still breathing low warmth into the air, the scent of smoke faint and comforting. Firelight brushed carved beams and polished stone, leaving everything softened, half caught between night and morning.
Thranduil stood before the hearth, his hands folded behind his back, pale hair unbound down his shoulders. He appeared lost in thought, his gaze fixed on the slow, shifting glow of the coals as though they might answer questions he had not yet spoken. He did not turn as Legolas entered, but Legolas knew better than to think his presence had gone unnoticed.
He lingered a moment at the threshold, watching his father in silence. Then, gently, he spoke.
“Adar.”
Thranduil turned his head just enough to acknowledge him, one brow lifting in quiet amusement. “My son,” he said, his voice smooth, unhurried. “Have you come to scold me once more for denying a most recent passage to men who seem to think my forest exists for their convenience?”
The words were edged with dry humor, the familiar sort that carried more than one meaning beneath its surface. Thranduil turned fully now, his expression composed, eyes bright with a knowing glint that suggested he was well aware the matter was not yet settled between them.
Legolas smiled, the tension easing slightly in his chest. “No,” he said as he crossed the room, his tone warm. “I believe I exhausted that particular privilege yesterday, my lord father.”
A soft sound escaped Thranduil, something between a breath and a laugh. “So I had hoped.”
Legolas took a seat near the hearth, letting the warmth seep into him, grounding him in the present. The fire crackled quietly, filling the space where sharper words might have found purchase. For a few moments, they shared the silence easily, as they always had, bound by affection older and stronger than disagreement.
The silence did not break all at once. It shifted.
Thranduil had been watching his son from the corner of his eye, the way he always did when something lay just beneath the surface. The humor faded from his expression, replaced by a quiet attentiveness that missed very little.
“You are unsettled,” he said at last, his voice low and even. It was not a question.
Legolas remained still, his gaze fixed on the fire. The embers pulsed softly, red and gold, too close in hue to what lingered behind his eyes. For a long moment, he said nothing, as though weighing whether the words themselves might give the fear greater shape.
“I dream of the south,” he said finally. “Not as memory, but as warning. I see the forest burning. I hear the trees cry out in pain, as though they are being torn from the earth while still alive.” His fingers tightened slightly against his knee. “There is an eye, Adar. An eye of fire. It watches, unblinking. And when I wake, the fear remains.”
He swallowed, his voice quieter now. “Something is stirring. I feel it in my heart, as surely as I feel the Green beneath my feet. And it frightens me.”
Thranduil said nothing at once. He looked at his son as though seeing not only the elf before him, but the long road stretching out beyond this morning, beyond these walls. Many among the Eldar had known it, though few had ever spoken it aloud. From the beginning, there had been something set apart about Legolas. Not a gift that could be named easily, but a pull toward the wider world, toward moments that would shape more than one life.
He had known, even as he cradled him for the first time, that Greenwood alone would never be enough to hold him.
And how deeply he wished, in this moment, that it could be.
Thranduil felt the selfish desire rise unbidden, sharp and aching. To keep Legolas here, where the forest would shelter him, and the dangers of the world might be held at bay. To pretend that love and walls and watchful trees could defy what had already begun to move. But he had lived too long to indulge such illusions. Fate did not ask permission. It came when it would, and when it did, it would carve something vital from his heart.
He was not ready for that loss. He doubted he ever would be.
“The south is not at rest,” Thranduil said at last. “You are not wrong to feel it. The border between Dol Guldur and what remains of our untainted forest grows thinner by the year. What once crept now presses. What once hid now watches.”
Legolas lifted his gaze to meet his father’s. “The Green tells me,” he said softly. “Not in words, but in grief. In unease. The forest is afraid, Adar. And so am I.” His voice faltered, just enough to betray him. “I do not know what is being asked of me.”
Thranduil stepped closer and laid a hand upon his son’s shoulder, the touch steady and grounding. “You are being asked to listen, Legolas,” he said quietly. “As you always have. To endure the knowing, even when the path ahead is not yet clear.”
Thranduil’s grip tightened slightly, as though the contact itself were an anchor.
“The world is changing,” he said quietly. “Not only in the south.” His gaze drifted, unfocused now, as if tracking reports laid one atop another in his mind. “The north stirs as well. Orcs have been sighted more frequently along the old paths. Too many to dismiss as chance.” His voice hardened just a fraction. “The White Orc has been seen more than once, gathering others to him. He does not wander without purpose.”
Legolas’s breath caught. He had heard whispers, fragments carried by scouts and by the Green itself, but hearing them spoken aloud gave the unease sharper edges.
Thranduil turned back to him then, and before Legolas could look away, his father lifted his hand, fingers warm and sure as they came to rest beneath Legolas’s chin. With gentle insistence, he guided Legolas’s face upward, compelling him to meet his gaze.
“The world will call for you,” Thranduil said, his voice low and steady, though something strained beneath it. “Sooner than I would wish. And when it does, it will break my heart.”
For a moment, the king was gone, and only a father remained. “How I would keep you here, nettle-sprite,” he went on softly. “Under my roof, within the arms of this forest, where no shadow could reach you. You are my beloved child, Legolas. Do not ever doubt that.”
Something bright gathered in Thranduil’s eyes, a sheen he did not allow to linger. He blinked once, deliberately, and the moment passed, folded away with practiced control.
“I do not know what shape it will take,” he said, more composed now. “Only that something is coming. Something that will set your path in motion, whether either of us is ready for it or not.”
Legolas felt his throat tighten. Tears blurred his vision, unbidden and unwelcome, but he did not turn away. He saw the fear in his father’s eyes, carefully contained, and it pierced him more deeply than any dream had.
“I know,” he whispered, though he was not certain what he meant by it. Only that he understood this much. His father feared for him. Feared losing him to a world already in motion.
Thranduil let his hand fall away at last, the warmth of it lingering even as he turned back toward the hearth. The moment closed gently, not dismissed, but set aside with care. He straightened, the mantle of kingship settling over him once more, though something softer remained in his eyes.
Legolas drew a slow breath. The ache in his chest had not eased, but it had steadied.
“Adar,” he said quietly. “May I ask something of you?”
Thranduil glanced at him, the corner of his mouth lifting. “You already have,” he replied. “You simply have not yet confessed what it will cost me.”
Legolas smiled. “Will you grant me leave to visit Imladris?”
That earned him a look of exaggerated consideration. Thranduil turned fully now, studying his son as though weighing the request against some vast and invisible ledger. “Do you miss the Noldor so keenly,” he asked, “that life beneath my roof has become unbearable?”
Legolas laughed, the sound warm and unguarded, easing the last of the tension from his shoulders. “No. I miss my husband.”
Thranduil made a soft, unimpressed sound. “Of course you do.”
“Elrohir cannot yet leave,” Legolas went on. “He and Elladan are assisting Lord Elrond. The new fosterling requires rather more attention than one might expect.”
Thranduil’s brows rose slightly. “The son of Arathorn,” he said. “I should think he would.” A glint of humor returned to his eyes. “Some children require a watchful eye. That one will require several.”
“He is ten,” Legolas said, fond amusement threading his voice. “And already manages to keep both twins occupied.”
“Then Imladris has my sympathy,” Thranduil replied. “If the boy takes after his father, they will never know peace again.”
Legolas inclined his head, entirely unrepentant. “Elrohir says he asks questions as though the world itself owes him answers.”
Thranduil huffed softly. “That sounds dangerously familiar to experiences I’ve had with a certain child.”
Legolas’s smile widened. “So I have been told.”
Silence settled between them once more, easy but not empty. Thranduil’s gaze lingered on his son, thoughtful now, the humor fading into a more measured tone.
“We will speak of your journey,” he said at last. “Not today.”
Legolas met his eyes, understanding what lay beneath the words. “But soon.”
Thranduil nodded once. “Yes. Soon.”
The fire crackled quietly at their backs. For a little while longer, father and son remained there together, sheltered by affection and habit, holding fast to wit and warmth as the world beyond the forest continued, inexorably, to turn.
Far across the Misty Mountains, in a corner of Imladris few bothered to visit, Elrohir sat alone.
The terrace overlooked the river where it narrowed and quickened, its waters flashing pale between stone and pine. This stretch of the valley lay off the main paths, spared the steady footfall of messengers and guards. The air was cool here, tinged with the faint bite of snow carried down from the higher passes, and the only sound was the low, patient rush of water below.
Elrohir leaned back against the rock face, one leg drawn up, forearm resting loosely across his knee. His gaze was fixed on the mountains beyond the trees, though he seemed to be seeing something far more distant than stone and snow.
“You know,” a voice said behind him, unhurried and far too amused, “when you vanish like this, people begin to assume you are either brooding or avoiding responsibility.”
Elrohir did not turn. “Those people are incorrect.”
Elladan stepped into view, boots scuffing lightly against the stone as he crossed the terrace. “Are they?” he asked. “Because I have been searching for you for nearly an hour, my brother, and I have yet to find a crisis you are meant to be attending.”
“There is no crisis,” Elrohir replied. “I am simply thinking.”
Elladan folded his arms and regarded him with open interest. “Ah,” he said. “That explains it. You only think this hard when you are missing a certain woodland distraction.”
Elrohir finally looked at him, eyes sharp. “I will push you into the river.”
Elladan smiled, entirely unrepentant. “Perish the thought.” He settled himself beside Elrohir, stretching his legs out comfortably. “Still, you do have a habit of growing contemplative whenever Legolas is not within reach.”
“I do not sulk,” Elrohir said flatly.
“You sulk with restraint,” Elladan replied. “It is very refined.”
Elrohir snorted, then shifted the subject before his brother could press further. “And where is your little shadow?” he asked. “I had assumed he would be underfoot by now.”
Elladan’s expression softened at once. “Father has him,” he said. “They are walking the lower gardens. Estel insisted on learning the names of every tree along the path.”
“That will take some time,” Elrohir said dryly.
“Indeed,” Elladan said, settling back on his hands. “He is ten now, and apparently determined to interrogate the world until it gives him satisfactory answers.”
Elrohir’s mouth curved, almost despite himself. “He reminds me of someone.”
Elladan glanced at him sideways. “Legolas,” he said promptly. A pause, then a faint smile. “They will be a dangerous combination.”
The words lingered longer than Elladan had intended. Elrohir’s gaze shifted toward the mountains again, his expression tightening, the earlier ease giving way to something more guarded.
“Do you think Estel will like him?” Elrohir asked, and there was a faint edge to the question now.
Elladan blinked. “Are you serious?”
Elrohir’s jaw set. “Entirely.”
Elladan studied him for a heartbeat, then let out a short laugh, fond and disbelieving in equal measure. “Elrohir,” he said, “Legolas could walk into an empty hall and somehow leave admirers behind. Of course Estel will like him.”
Elrohir exhaled through his nose. “That is not what concerns me.”
Elladan’s brows rose. “Oh?”
“The boy is impressionable,” Elrohir went on, a note of restrained irritation threading his voice. “And Legolas is…” He trailed off, clearly dissatisfied with any word that came to mind. “Memorable.”
Elladan smiled, far too pleased. “That he is.”
“I did not give you those sketches to parade before him,” Elrohir added.
Elladan held up his hands. “I did not parade anything. He found them.”
Elrohir shot him a look. “That was not my intention.”
“Intentions aside,” Elladan said dryly, “he studied them as though they were something rare. Asked if Legolas was real. Asked when he might meet him. Asked why someone so fair would choose to live among trees instead of water and stone.”
Elrohir closed his eyes briefly. “I should never have drawn him so accurately.”
Elladan laughed softly. “It would not have mattered. Estel would have been taken with him regardless.”
“That is hardly reassuring.”
“And yet entirely predictable,” Elladan replied. “The men of Elros’s line appear to have a longstanding weakness for your husband.”
“That is an exaggeration,” Elrohir said, though his tone lacked conviction.
Elladan raised a brow. “Is it?”
Elrohir did not answer. His mouth curved despite himself, annoyance and affection tangled together in a way he did not bother to untangle.
Elladan watched him for a moment, then softened his tone. “You have heard nothing new?” he asked. “Nothing troubling?”
“No,” Elrohir replied. “Nothing out of the ordinary.”
Elladan hummed. “That was not the question I asked.”
Elrohir closed his eyes briefly, then opened them. “I have heard from him,” he said. “I always do.”
“But?”
“But distance has a way of thinning even the strongest words,” Elrohir said quietly.
He then let out a measured breath, then straightened slightly, as though drawing himself back into the present. “And the Dwarves,” he asked, his tone deliberately mild. “How do our guests fare?”
Elladan’s mouth curved at once. Not a smile, precisely. Something worse.
“They have departed,” he said.
Elrohir turned so sharply that the movement seemed to scrape stone. “They have what?”
“Left,” Elladan clarified, far too pleased with himself. “Vanished. Gone on their way.”
“When?” Elrohir demanded.
“Sometime before dawn,” Elladan replied. “Lindir discovered their chambers empty. Beds cold. No note. No apology.” He tilted his head. “Apparently, a wizard found occasion to be…distracting.”
Elrohir stared at him. “You are telling me that a company of Dwarves and a Hobbit walked out of Imladris without anyone noticing?”
Elladan shrugged. “I am told it was rather well executed.”
“Under our very noses,” Elrohir said flatly.
Elladan’s eyes danced. “Quite.”
Elrohir dragged a hand through his hair. “Father is surely not pleased.”
“No,” Elladan agreed. “But I suspect he was not surprised.”
That gave Elrohir pause. He lowered his hand slowly. “Grandmother,” he said. It was not a question.
Elladan’s expression softened, mischief giving way to something wry and knowing. “She must have known,” he said. “I cannot imagine otherwise.”
Elrohir let out a quiet, incredulous breath. “Of course she did. A wizard, a dozen Dwarves, and a Hobbit with more courage than caution were never going to be contained by courtesy alone.”
Elladan laughed softly. “No. I expect their departure was decided long before they ever set foot in the valley.”
Elrohir leaned back against the stone once more, gaze lifting toward the pale sky above the mountains. The unease he had carried all morning settled more firmly now, taking on shape and direction.
“Then it has begun,” he said quietly.
Elladan sobered, following his brother’s gaze. “Yes,” he replied. “It has.”
Below them, the river rushed on, indifferent to kings and councils and careful watchfulness. But Elrohir felt it all the same, a thread drawn tight across distance and time.
Far from Imladris, far from these mountains, something had been set in motion.
And there would be no calling it back.
Elrohir rose to his feet, the movement abrupt enough to draw Elladan’s attention at once.
“Where are you off to now?” Elladan asked, pushing himself upright as well. “Do not tell me you have suddenly remembered a forgotten errand?”
Elrohir did not answer immediately. He stood at the edge of the terrace, looking out over the valley as though he were measuring distance rather than scenery. When he spoke, his voice was quiet, but there was no mistaking the resolve beneath it.
“Too long have my dreams warned me,” he said. “Not in images clear enough to name, but in the same cruel way foresight always comes. A sense of motion. Of something breaking loose.”
Elladan’s expression sobered. “You think this,” he said slowly, “has something to do with the Dwarves?”
“I think it has something to do with Legolas,” Elrohir replied.
Elladan went still.
“I do not know what shape it will take,” Elrohir continued. “Only that his path is about to turn. When it does, it will set fire to everything that follows. Not all at once. Not yet. But this,” he gestured vaguely toward the mountains, toward the unseen road beyond them, “this feels like the beginning.”
Elladan studied him carefully. “And what is it you intend to do about it?”
Elrohir turned back to him then, eyes steady. “I intend to see my husband.”
Elladan’s jaw tightened. “You would leave now?”
“I would,” Elrohir said simply.
“And leave Imladris,” Elladan added, “and Estel?”
Elrohir’s expression softened, but he did not waver. “I have not seen him in nearly a decade,” he said. “Eight years of letters and ink and careful omissions. Eight years of waking without him beside me.” He drew a slow breath. “If the world is moving, I will not remain still.”
Elladan studied him for a long moment, then exhaled slowly. “Well,” he said at last, “that was suitably dramatic.”
Elrohir shot him a look. “Do not start.”
“Oh, I must,” Elladan replied cheerfully. “You stood. You stared into the distance. You invoked dreams and cruel foresight. I half expected thunder.”
Elrohir took one step toward him and shoved him in the shoulder, hard enough to make the point but not enough to unbalance him. “I will kill you.”
Elladan laughed outright, stumbling back a half step more from amusement than force. “You say that every time you make a decision you do not wish to explain.”
“One day I will mean it.”
“Unlikely,” Elladan said lightly. “You would miss me.”
Elrohir scowled, then turned away, already pacing a short line along the terrace as though the road were forming beneath his feet. Elladan watched him, fondness cutting through the humor.
“Still,” Elladan went on, “I wish you good fortune when you tell Estel you are leaving.”
Elrohir halted mid-step. “Do not.”
Elladan grinned. “You are his favorite. He will take this very personally.”
“I am not abandoning him,” Elrohir said sharply.
“I know,” Elladan replied, his tone gentler now. “But he is ten. He will hear what he wishes.”
Elrohir dragged a hand through his hair. “He will understand.”
Elladan arched a brow. “Eventually. After several questions, two protests, and at least one attempt to negotiate terms.”
Elrohir closed his eyes briefly. “I will still kill you.”
Elladan’s smile softened. “Good luck,” he said. “And may your reunion be worth the lecture you will receive upon your return.”
Elrohir huffed a quiet laugh despite himself, the edge of it worn smooth by affection. The decision had been made. Motion waited only for the telling.
Beyond the valley, beyond the mountains, a road was opening.
And Elrohir would not let Legolas walk it alone.