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Chapter Text

The sea had long since carried Legolas into the West.

Centuries had passed in Valinor, and the Sindarin Prince of the Woodland Realm had walked among undying trees, sung beneath stars untouched by shadow, and waited. Always waiting. For his Ada. For the day when Thranduil, proud and untamed, would at last set aside crown and care and join him upon those shores.

But word came instead like a blade driven into his heart: Thranduil, ElvenKing of Eryn Lasgalen, had perished. His body returned to the earth, his fëa unable to cross the sundering seas. It lingered in Arda, bound by grief, by love, by the weight of unyielding duty.

Legolas could not bear it.

Sorrow wrapped him like a shroud, and he withdrew into stillness, lying down beneath the silver boughs. His eyes closed as if in slumber—yet it was no ordinary sleep.

When next he opened them, he was not in Valinor.

…

..

.

The first thing that Legolas learnt in that new place, was the bitter weight of iron.

He woke to darkness, to chains that bit cruelly into his wrists and ankles, each shackle cold and foreign against his skin. The world smelt of damp earth, mildew, and men.

His head ached as though from a long dream, but no dream could explain the stone floor beneath him, or the way his body ached with a weariness unlike any he had known, even in battle.

He stirred, and the rattle of iron stirred with him.

Human voices drifted nearby.

"Found him by the river, unconscious. Nothing on him. Not even a stitch."

"A thief stripped him, most like. Or he was a runaway slave."

“His skin’s too fair to be a slave.”

"Doesn’t matter. He’s ours now."

The voices were rough, casual, dismissive.

Legolas drew breath and spoke, his voice carrying command even in weakness. "Where am I?" he asked, his Sindarin accent lilting through the words of the Common Tongue. "Release me at once."

The men turned, startled that their prisoner could speak so clearly, so imperiously. But none obeyed. Their eyes slid from his fair face to his chains, and they laughed.

"High-born, is he?" one muttered.

"Aye. Thinks himself a noble. But he woke in our chains, hehehe."

They would not answer his questions. They would not release him.

His captors saw the strangeness in him—an ageless beauty that no mortal man could possibly possess, the clarity of his gaze, the light that seemed never to dim from his hair or skin, no matter the filth of their cells. Suspicion gave way to greed, and greed to cruelty.

They sold him.

He was dragged from one hand to another, each buyer eager to own this strange creature, this man who did not age, who healed from wounds as if time itself refused to scar him. Whispers spread that he was touched by the divine, or cursed by it.

An immortal.

And so, he became a prize.

"Sing." they ordered him.

And if he would not, he was left in the dark.

A silence so complete… it clawed at his mind, and a thirst so terrible it scoured his throat raw.

"Dance." they commanded him.

And if he faltered, they starved him until his body trembled and his vision swam.

There was no bow in his hands. No forest at his back. No companions, no father, no kin. Nothing but his voice, his body, his chains.

So he obeyed.

He sang until his throat ached, though the melodies of his people were twisted into crude entertainment for drunken human kings. He danced with the grace of a woodland lord, though each step was given under threat of silence and starvation. They cheered and mocked, clapping their hands like children at a festival, blind to the sorrow in the music, deaf to the mourning hidden in every step.

Decades swam and blended into each other. Kings died, and their sons rose. He outlived them all.

"See him?" one lord whispered to another. "He has not aged a day since my great grandfather's reign."

"No mortal blood in him," another said. "He is fae. He is elf."

By then, there was no denying it. His ears, his bearing, his very presence told the truth. An immortal chained.

And they kept him.

Through war, and plague, and famine, and times of peace, he remained. A treasure, a wonder, a prisoner. Never free.

Legolas… endured.

Because that was all that was left to him. His songs became his only rebellion. Though they thought his words meaningless, the mortals could not know that he sang of the Woodland Realm’s twilight, of Ithilien’s blooming, of ships that had once carried him to Aman. His feet traced dances that spoke of battles fought, of friends long lost, of seas wider than the world.

And though they clapped and laughed, they never understood.

But in time, he ceased to hope…

Hope…

“Estel…”

No, no…He is not here, his dear friends are not here. Gimli is not here. And if they were he would not want them to see him like this. The memories keep him sane, and alive. And yet, it is because they are not here that he sees no way of escape.

What escape could there be? What rescue? The world beyond his cell was strange, unfamiliar. The air was colder, raw with the bite of the wild that didn’t know him. The sky above was unknown, the stars misaligned from the maps he had studied so long.  The ages of men—short as they were— passed like shifting sand, and still the chains held. He was no longer Legolas Greenleaf Thrandulion, Prince of the Woodland Realm, nor even a companion of the Fellowship. He was only the prize. The chained immortal.

And he knew he would never be free.

…

Or so he thought.

.

..

…

The night was quiet, and yet it was not.

From within the stone halls of Men, a song rose from a fragile note, no more than a thread of sound carried on the wind. It should not have reached so far, but it did, riding the currents of night as though the stars themselves bore it aloft.

Legolas sang in front of the mortal king.

His voice was soft, not merely song but a plea. Each note bore longing, every phrase heavy with yearning. The words were of the Sindarin tongue, unbroken and pure. Words the mortals could never understand.

Freedom. Forest. Laughter. The green shade of trees that had never known the axe. The song of rivers. The taste of wine shared in merriment. And then—the smoke of fire. The sound of screaming. The clash of iron. The shadow of sorrow.

Bound and caged, stripped of dignity, Legolas poured the weight of centuries into the melody. It was a song of memory, but also of rebellion, for though he was trapped and forced to sing, his voice was not, and he chose each song.

Miles away, on the edges of the growing forest, Oropher’s host was encamped. Watchfires burned, and young warriors were set to their patrols.

Thranduil, son of Oropher, still just a prince, not yet crowned with duty or grief, froze as the sound touched his ears. He was tall and well built, but young still—little more than three centuries of age—yet his spirit quickened as if some deep part of him had always been waiting for this moment.

“Do you hear it?” he asked the others.

One shook their head. “Only wind.”

“No,” Thranduil whispered, his voice sharpened by something deeper. “That is no wind. That is song.”

Feren, his sworn guard and dearest friend, raised his head. His keen senses sharpened, and then he too heard it—soft but steady, like a river through stone. His eyes widened. "That is no mortal song. It is one of our own."

Thranduil did not hesitate. His blood burned, his heart thundered. Without a word he turned, slipping into the shadows, feet swift and silent as only the Wood-elves he grew up around could be.

"My prince!" Feren hissed, hurrying after him. "Reckless fool, where are you going? Thranduil! Stop!"

Thranduil did not stop. His eyes glinted with moonlight as he glanced back. "You may follow, or you may return. But I am going to find the source of this song!" He followed the sound that threaded between trees and across hills, with a heart full of half awe, and half dread. The lament was unlike any he had heard, heavy with grief yet luminous with beauty.

Feren groaned, “Your father will have my head if I leave you.” Cursing softly in their tongue, but his loyalty bound him tighter than any chain. "You are impossible. Very well, Thranduil. Lead on!"

The song guided them through the night, weaving between houses and walls, until they stood before the towering fortress of Men. Torches burned along the battlements; guards walked the high parapets. And still, beneath it all, the song bled through, pure and untainted.

They scaled the wall with the ease of hunters in their element, slipping like shadows where no eye could catch them. At last, they found a high window, barred but not shuttered. They peered in.

And there he was.

“By the stars…” Thranduil breathed. Never had he seen an Elf so fair.

But horror burned in him stronger than wonder. For what outrage was this—that one of the Eldar should be caged like an animal, chained and humiliated by Men? His young heart surged with fury. The cage was iron, cruel and narrow, and the chains bound him like a beast. His body bore the marks of cruelty, pale skin marred with cuts and bruises. He sat slumped against the bars, his frame thin with deprivation. His hair, fair and silver-golden, clung to his shoulders, though no dimness could hide its beauty. His ears, unmistakably Elven, peeked through strands of gold.

And he sang.

He sang of trees that sheltered the sky with green crowns too vast for mortal sight. He sang of wine flowing like river-water, of children’s laughter. He sang of feasts in peace, of the starlight’s silver glow on calm rivers.

Then, his voice broke into sorrow. He sang of fire, the gnashing of iron, the shrieks of battle, of cruelty without end. Of freedom lost… His voice wavered, but it did not fall.

Thranduil’s breath caught, and something deep within him ached. "We must rescue him," He said fiercely, his hand tightening on the stone sill. His voice shook with conviction. "Elf he is. Of our people. No chains of Men should bind him."

Feren swallowed hard. He too was moved, his heart twisting at the sight, at the sound. Yet his reason held. "I agree. But we are two only, Thranduil. Even you cannot break such chains alone. And if we are caught, it is not only our lives at stake—it is our people’s safety, our Aran’s trust."

Thranduil clenched his jaw. His pride warred with wisdom. His spirit yearned to break through the window, to tear the cage apart with his own hands, to lift this captive songbird back into the light.

But Feren was right.

He closed his eyes, forcing himself to stillness. "Then we go to my Adar," he said at last, voice low but steady. "He must hear of this. And when he hears, he will not leave one of our own to suffer."

Feren placed a hand on his shoulder, steady and loyal. "That is the wiser course. Come, before the guards catch wind of us."

Thranduil cast one last look through the window. The elf within had ceased singing, his voice breaking off into silence, though his lips still shaped the words. His eyes, weary and half-lidded, stared at nothing.

A promise burned in Thranduil’s chest, fierce as fire.

‘I will return for you, and you shall with me. For whomever you are, I will not let the race of Men keep you in chains!’

With that oath unspoken but certain, he and Feren slipped back into the night, carrying the song with them.

…

..

.

The halls of Oropher, ElvenKing of Greenwood the Great, were not quiet when Thranduil and Feren returned. Word spread quickly when the young prince demanded immediate audience, his face alight with urgency, his friend grim at his side.

Oropher sat upon his throne of carved oak and stone, eyes like flint beneath his crown of autumn leaves. His hair like molten gold in the firelight, his presence filling the night. When Thranduil burst before him, breathless and wild-eyed, the king frowned.

“Adar!” Thranduil gasped. “There is one—an Elf! A prisoner of Men. They keep him in a cage!”

“You left your watch?” Oropher’s voice cracked like a whip. His gaze was stern, his displeasure palpable. “Reckless boy! Would you abandon your duty on a whim of sound?”

“It was no whim!” Thranduil protested. “I saw him with my own eyes. He is one of us. He speaks our tongue. His skin is fair and…” His voice dropped, lips pressed together at his father’s cold, calculating gaze.

“It is true, Aran-nin.” Feren added from his bowed position beside Thranduil.

For a heartbeat, Oropher was still. His sharp eyes narrowed, searching his son’s face for falsehood. He found none.

Then his expression darkened, wrath gathering like a storm. “Men dared this?” His voice was low, dangerous. “To cage an Elf as though he were quarry?”

“Aye.” Thranduil confirmed with a nod.

Oropher rose to his full height, every inch the king. “Then he will be freed,” he declared. His voice rolled through the room like thunder. “Sound the horns. Gather the captains. If these mortal beasts think to chain the Eldar, we shall show them the folly of their arrogance.” His voice shook the hall. "This insult shall not stand. This shame shall not endure a day longer. By the starlight that watched our birth, I will see this injustice ended."

His captains bowed, fierce and ready. His people murmured their agreement, voices swelling like storm winds.

There was no debate. No council. No hesitation. Oropher was not Elu Thingol with his labyrinthine diplomacy, nor was he Gil-galad with his measured wisdom. He was Oropher of Greenwood the Great! Quick to wrath, swift to judgment, proud to the marrow.

And he acted.

Thranduil’s heart leapt—not only at his father’s wrath, but at the memory of the fair, sorrowful face in the cage, the song that still lingered in his ears.

The next day was about to blaze with war.

The Wrath of Oropher

The army of Greenwood marched before dawn. By twilight, the host of Oropher stood before the mortal kingdom’s gates, green banners snapping in the wind, the gleam of their armour like starlight made steel.

Oropher himself rode at their head, his son and Feren close beside him, the King’s Guard arrayed behind. And the rest of his army just behind that. The Men on the battlements quailed at the sight.

The gates opened, and trembling nobles came forth to parley.

"My lord of the forest," their spokesman said, sweat shining at his brow, “To what do we owe the p—”

“You keep an elf captive.” His voice was sharp, and left no room for evasion.

 "*gulp* If you come for the one you call elf, know that he is ours by right. Our fathers held him, and their fathers before them. He has been part of our house for generations. Surely, if we must part with such a prize, compensation is due. A reward. Gold, gems, something fitting for a treasure of this worth—"

Oropher’s laughter cut him off.

It was no kind sound.

“A prize?” he said, voice low and dangerous. “You dare treat another being—an elf, no less—as if they were coin to be counted? I care nothing for your claims or your gold. You speak of reward," the ElvenKing thundered, "for holding my kind in chains? You dare name him a trinket to be bought and sold? Foolish, witless mortal. Shall I tell you your reward?"

He drew his sword, white steel blazing in the dimming light. His voice rose, cold and merciless, "I shall pay handsomely indeed—by granting your head freedom from its shoulders."

The words were command and judgment both. The Greenwood host surged forward, and the mortal kingdom knew the full fury of the Eldar.

Those who fought, died. Those who had chained the elf, who had watched and been pleasured by his misery, were struck down without mercy. Innocents such as; women, children, the unarmed, were driven out, allowed to flee into the wilds. But no stone of the slave keeper’s palace was left unbloodied, no chain left unshattered.

By the night’s end, the kingdom lay broken, its proud halls reduced to ruin.

Oropher, Thranduil, Feren, and the King’s Guard pressed on into the palace’s innermost chambers as the place Thranduil had saw the elf at was empty. Only cage and chains had remained—now broken and burned in the name of justice.

They came at last to a dark chamber, foul with the scent of unwashed stone and iron. The only sign someone was there was the sound of faint breathing. A torch was lit, and in its light, they saw him.

There, behind cruel bars.

The elf.

He was as Thranduil had described—pale and fair, silver-golden hair tangled and dulled by neglect, his body weakened by long deprivation, naked and bound in chains too heavy for even mortal beasts. His head rested against the bars, his eyes half-closed in exhaustion, yet still he lived. Still, he breathed.

For a moment, no one moved. Even Oropher’s wrath cooled into shock, for to see one of their kind so degraded was a wound deeper than steel.

Thranduil stepped forward first, voice breaking with urgency. "Open it. Free him now!"

The guards rushed to obey, their blades and hands breaking locks and snapping chains.

And when the last shackle fell, Legolas sagged forward into Thranduil’s steady arms, eyes unseeing, too weak to stand, too frail even to speak. Yet his lips trembled, as if still forming the words of the song that had carried across the night and called his kin to him.

Oropher laid a hand upon his son’s shoulder, his eyes narrowing as he gazed upon the broken elf.

"Whoever you are," the king said, voice iron-bound, "you are of the Firstborn, and you are free. No mortal hand shall lay claim to you again."

And in the silence that followed, Legolas sang with a voice softer than the sound of the flickering fire from the torchlight….

“Is this some kind of trick
Pretending I can go?”

They took him from Thranduil.

“Because if so, you're sick
My heart's already broken”

Positioned him properly and carried him with care, for though he was light in their arms, he bore the terrible weight of long years of torment.
“I'm tired of this”

His voice cracked, weary but haunting, his words more plea than melody.

Thranduil shook his head, his own voice steady, sure. "There is no trick. You are safe now. No chains will ever touch you again."

The singing stopped.

.

..

…

His body was cleaned, the grime and filth washed away with warm water, his skin treated with salves, his hair carefully untangled by gentle hands. Fresh linens replaced cold stone floors, soft bandages covered raw welts and bruises, and the healers laid him upon a cot in one of the healing tents erected at the edge of the camp near the royal tents.

He did not stir.

Elves whispered in grief and outrage at his state, and yet with every breath he drew, there was also awe. That he lived at all after such torment seemed a miracle of its own.

When Oropher came to see him again, he entered expecting only to look upon a wounded kinsman, to ensure that justice had indeed been done for the cruelties suffered. He was not prepared.

The elf lay still, eyes half-open in elven sleep, as was the way of their kind. Clean now and under the light, no longer obscured by filth, his features were fairer than any mortal could ever imagine. Silver-golden hair, pale skin, long lashes shadowing his cheeks. But it was not his beauty that stopped Oropher cold.

It was his eyes.

Blue and grey as steel under moonlight, sharp yet luminous, eyes he had seen countless times before—reflected in his own mirror, and more often still in the face of his son, Thranduil.

Oropher froze. His heart thundered in his chest, his breath caught sharp in his throat.

‘Impossible.’

He stepped closer, unable to stop himself, staring as though the truth might change if he looked hard enough. But no. The resemblance was unmistakable.

Those eyes were his blood.

The thought struck like a blade to the chest.

Oropher’s mind reeled, unwilling, disbelieving. He told himself it could not be. This broken elf could not be his. How could he? And yet…

Memory stirred.

A time before Greenwood, before fire and shadow. When Oropher was younger—reckless, untamed, arrogant even for one of the Sindar. There had been an elleth then, silver-haired, radiant as the dawn. He had been bold and foolish, carried by desire and wine, and he had left her with nothing but parting words, never looking back.

Had she…? Could she have borne a child? And if so… could this wretched soul before him be that son, lost and unknown, caged by mortals for generations?

"No," Oropher whispered to himself, but the sudden sound drew the attention of the healers, shaking his head sharply. "No, it cannot be."

And yet the longer he looked, the harder the truth pressed.

“Aran-nin?” He did not hear it.

He told himself he would wait. He would not decide upon mere resemblance and memory. When the elf awoke, when he was stronger, then Oropher would demand answers.

But then the elf’s eyes—his eyes—shifted.

The healers had gathered out of curiosity and stood at attention.

For the first time, Legolas’s eyes were on him. And though his body was still broken, though the healers’ herbs fogged his mind, recognition of a sort washed over him like river water over stone.

He looked at Oropher and saw not Oropher. He saw Thranduil. The resemblance was too near; the lines of father and son blurred in his exhausted haze.

His lips trembled. His eyes filled with sudden tears.

And with a voice so faint it was barely more than breath, he longingly whispered, "A…da?"

Then, as though the word itself cost him what little strength remained, his body sagged and his mind fell back into deep reverie—no, into a healing sleep. As now his eyes were fully closed, beyond reach.

Oropher staggered as if struck. His chest constricted. Breath fled from him. The word echoed, hollow and shattering, inside his skull.

He turned sharply, cloak swirling, and fled the tent.

The healers’ eyes watching him go, all too shocked and confused to form words.

The night air did little to steady him. He could not remain there—not with those eyes staring from the face of a half-dead elf, not with that word still burning in his ears.

"Ada."

No. He needed counsel. He needed certainty, before madness took root and made a mockery of his reason.

He wrote a sentence…then struck it through. Wrote another, only to scrape the quill hard across the parchment, leaving a dark scar where words had failed him. How was one to give shape to thoughts so tangled, so perilous?

At last, he set aside restraint and chose honesty.

A personal letter. One king to another, unarmoured by formality.

‘Amdir, friend and fellow-king,

I find myself faced with a matter I cannot weigh alone. If you still hold me in trust, I would value your counsel above any other’s. Come to Greenwood, or bid me come to you, and I will abide by your word.’

He sealed it with a steady hand that betrayed nothing of the storm beneath.

A messenger was summoned at once. Oropher’s voice was sharp, clipped with command, though a faint tremor threaded its edge despite his will.

“Ride,” he said, pressing the letter into the messenger’s grasp. “With all speed. Gather an envoy and bear this to Amdir of Lórien.”

The elf bowed deeply and was gone, swift as an arrow loosed into darkness.

Oropher remained where he stood, one hand pressed flat against his chest, as though he might still the tumult there by force alone.

‘What have I done? What truth have I uncovered?

And what will it make of me… if this is truly my son?’

As an afterthought—though one born of hard necessity—he summoned the healers and bound them by oath to silence regarding all that had passed within the healing tent. No word was to travel beyond those walls. Not yet.

Then, with only his guards at his side, Oropher turned from the camp and rode for his kingdom.

Each mile carried him farther from the place where doubt had taken hold, and closer to the reckoning that awaited him beneath the boughs of Greenwood.

…

..

.

Dawn touched the camp softly, spilling gold through the canvas walls of the healing tents. Birds had begun their chorus, a song of life that no chains could bind.

Legolas stirred.

For the first time in what felt like a long time, his body did not scream with hunger or thirst, nor ache with the bite of iron. The healers’ remedies dulled the worst of his pain, and the bandages covering him were clean and gentle.

But it was not comfort he craved.

It was air. It was light. It was green.

And he could feel that it was closer to him now than it ever was before.

With trembling limbs, he pushed himself from the cot, the healers crying softly for him to rest. Yet they did not stop him, for they understood what burned in his heart. Slowly, unsteadily, he stumbled from the tent into the waiting dawn.

And there—grass.

He fell to his knees upon it, it hurt, but he cared not. His fingers digging deep into the living earth as though afraid it might vanish. Tears blurred his vision as he pressed his cheek to the soil and stayed there to breathe in the scent of the earth. Then he lifted himself, crawled, staggering toward the nearest tree.

He embraced it as though it were long-lost kin. His arms wrapped around the trunk, his forehead resting against the bark. He wept, not for sorrow but for relief, for the agony of absence now mended. And the tree heard him, it embraced him back by shifting its branches to allow sunlight to pass through, enveloping Legolas in its rays. It touched his skin, warm and pure, and he spread his hands into its care, sobbing openly, unashamed. His voice broke, wordless but brimming with love, of reunion with all he had been denied.

The healers stood back, silent witnesses. They knew. They understood. His yearning was theirs, though sharpened by a hundredfold. They did not touch him, for this moment belonged to him alone.

And so Thranduil, with Feren silently at his side found him.

The young prince slowed as he came upon the sight—an elf in fair form, battered but radiant even in brokenness, kneeling in the grass, hugging a tree with tears upon his face. Healers circled like quiet sentinels, but none dared disturb him.

Thranduil stepped forward, heart caught strangely in his chest. He felt drawn and connected to them somehow… but brushed it off as there was no possibility he had met them before. He crouched beside the stranger and spoke softly.

"You are free now."

Legolas’s head turned slowly, his gaze unfocused, his mind still wrapped in fog. His lips parted, “Annon allen.”

Thranduil stayed beside him, keeping watch like the healers.

Soon, the fog in Legolas’ mind lifted a little.

Legolas blinked, truly seeing him for the first time.

Thranduil. His Ada.

But—no. Something was wrong. His hair was unmarked by silver, his eyes younger by millennia. His braids spoke of princely rank, not of kingship. Too young. Far too young.

Legolas’s breath caught. Shock twisted into tears, then confusion.

Thranduil, mistaking the look, only tilted his head. "What is your name? I am Thranduil Oropherion, prince of Greenwood. My father the king has already dealt with those who imprisoned you. They will never harm you again."

His words were simple, but each struck Legolas like an arrow through the heart. It was the timbre of his voice—the same that had scolded, laughed, and soothed him for centuries—that made it almost unbearable.

Legolas fought to keep his composure, to keep from trembling, to hold back tears that burned in his eyes. ‘Ada… I thought I lost you forever.’

But he could not say it.

So when his breath hitched and his shoulders shook, he turned his face away. Thranduil noticed, of course.

“You grieve still,” he said softly. “It is no shame. Any of us would weep after such cruelty. You are strong to endure it.”

The others heard and nodded knowingly. To them, his tears were gratitude, relief, release. To Legolas, they were agony—and love too great to name.

Legolas’s lips trembled. He could not give truth, how could he? So instead, he whispered, "How old are you?"

Thranduil tilted his head, "Three hundred and five summers."

And then it struck him fully.

The truth of it. The impossible truth.

Legolas nodded faintly. He had gone back. Back to the late Second Age, before fire, before ruin. At this point in time, Oropher would have ruled for just over four hundred years, or perhaps a little under five hundred years?

“Who are you?” Feren asked, voice pressed with insistence. “From where do you hail?”

Legolas swallowed. His voice was trembling, but steady enough. “My name… is Legolas.”

“And your home?”

A pause. His gaze went blank, guarded. “I do not know.”

The Elves exchanged glances.

“Your parents, then?”

Legolas lowered his eyes, “I… do not know them.”

Something like pity flickered in Thranduil’s young face, anger turning instead to protectiveness. To him, it was plain: this Elf had been taken, stripped of everything, left nameless and rootless. A victim of Men’s cruelty.

“Then you are kin to us now,” Thranduil said firmly, as though the matter were settled. “My father is a stern king, but fair. Though he has already travelled the short distance back to our kingdom, he will not turn you away. You will not be alone again.”

Legolas inclined his head in silence, though his heart thundered. To walk before Oropher—to see the grandsire he had never known—what cruel fate, or what strange gift, had been laid before him?

For now, he only tightened his hold around the tree.

.

..

…

The company travelled swiftly, guarding him like treasure. Thranduil—and subsequently Feren—remained nearest, fierce in his quiet watch. When Legolas faltered, he lent an arm. When Legolas’s eyes grew heavy, he offered his cloak for a pillow. When Legolas startled at every crack of branch, Thranduil laid a steadying hand on his shoulder, grounding him in the present.

The greenwood thickened. Trunks rose tall and ancient, branches weaving a living roof above. Lanterns glimmered faintly in the distance, and voices like running water drifted through the trees.

“The Woodland Realm,” one of the warriors announced proudly.

Legolas looked up, his heart twisting. Home. And yet, not the home he had known. Here Oropher yet lived, the Greenwood was still whole, unscarred by Shadow. Here his father was not yet king, but a boy grown proud in his sire’s service.

As they passed beneath the carved archways into the stronghold, Legolas drew his given cloak tighter about himself. Every step carried him deeper into the past.

And still, he kept his secret.

The Woodland Realm was no mere village—it was a growing kingdom, its halls carved into the living roots of the mountain, lit by lanterns that gleamed like starlight caught in glass. Silvan elves moved with easy laughter through the corridors, but then all eyes turned to Legolas.

Clothed now in fine tunics given to him by his rescuers, all his wounds in the beginning stages of healing, the Sindarin prince could no longer be mistaken for a wretch in chains. He carried himself with grace unthinking, his stride quiet as a deer’s, his gaze bright with sorrow and fire both. No shackle could strip away what he was.

The doors to the throne room opened, and Legolas was ushered inside.

More elves entered, and so Legolas waited.

And then the air shifted as Oropher arrived.

The ElvenKing’s enterance was like thunder, filling the room with weight. He looked upon Legolas, and though his heart clenched, his face remained stern.

Oropher sat upon a seat of carved oak, his presence filling the chamber like sunlight breaking through stormclouds. He was broad-shouldered, his hair a shining crown of gold, his eyes sharp and clear as the mountain sky. A king born of Doriath’s proud line, he bore himself with the same imperious grace as Thingol before him.

"I will have answers," Oropher said, his voice quieter than battle but far more dangerous. "Who are your parents? What house do you belong to?"

Legolas’s throat closed. He could not. He dared not. To speak truth would unravel all things.

Thranduil answered for him, “He gave his name only: Legolas.”

Oropher’s eyes narrowed, but before he could press, Thranduil asked the gentler question. "How long were you a prisoner?"

Legolas’s gaze grew distant. "I do not know…Seven generations of men, perhaps."

Gasps circled the elves. Such time in chains, in darkness, would have broken any soul.

One healer whispered what all feared. "I am surprised he has not faded…"

Oropher’s glare silenced them at once. “You will speak when spoken to, Thranduil.”

Thranduil casted his eyes to the floor.

Oropher’s gaze shifted to the stranger. And in that instant, the ElvenKing stilled.

Those eyes. He had tried his best to avoid them since the tent, but now saw how foolish a thought that was…those eyes could never be avoided.

Blue-grey, bright from an emotion…perhaps angered at the way he had silenced Thranduil? His own eyes, staring back at him from another face. A face with such a deep resemblance the one his son, who stood beside him bore.

The hall was silent as the weight of recognition struck him again.

Oropher leaned forward, his voice low, searching. “Legolas…” He tasted the name. It trembled in the air like a forgotten memory. Yet, it felt so right on his tongue. “Sindarin, beyond doubt… but how?”

Legolas bowed his head, lips pressed tight. He said nothing.

And Oropher’s thoughts began to spiral again.

‘Could it be? Could this Elf be mine?’

Again his memory brought him back to his reckless youth in Doriath, to the elleth he had courted—and bedded— over wine…an elleth of fair voice and laughing eyes. Their swift parting with his empty words, their union little more than fire and folly. He had thought nothing had come of it. But what if…? What if she had conceived, and never told him?

The boy would be near the right age, grown full, but young enough to have been born of those days. And his hair—strange, shining silver-gold. A mingling, perhaps, of Oropher’s own gold with some of her fair, silver hue. But the eyes… those were his. Of his line.

The king’s mouth went dry. He felt the weight of the court watching, waiting for his decree.

“Tell me,” Oropher said, his voice unsteady despite his command. “Who were your parents?”

Legolas’s silence deepened. To say the truth—that he was Oropher’s grandson, born an age yet to come—was impossible. To name Thranduil as his father, standing there youthful and unscarred, would unravel the very fabric of time. So he lowered his gaze, letting the question hang unanswered. Afterall, it would also be a truth that he has no memory of his mother.

Oropher’s chest tightened. The boy did not know. Abandoned, perhaps, raised without father or mother, until cruel Men had taken him.

A pang of guilt stabbed through the king’s heart. Had his own folly left this youth rootless, nameless, prey to the evils of the world?

Oropher’s eyes lingered on the youth—his bearing regal, his wounds endured with silence.

Prince or no, kin or no, he would not abandon him.

“Very well,” Oropher said at last, his tone regaining steel. He rose to his feet, tall and terrible in his wrath. “Legolas of no known house, hear me: you are under my protection now. No hand of Man shall ever touch you again.”

The hall resounded with agreement, the captains bowing in assent.

Legolas inclined his head, hiding the storm of emotion within him. He had looked into his grandfather’s eyes for the first time—and those eyes had recognized him, though in a way fate had never intended.

The great hall emptied slowly, voices low as the guards and captains departed. Thranduil lingered for a moment beside Legolas, offering him a small nod before bowing to his father and withdrawing with the rest.

When silence fell at last, Oropher sat rigid upon his oak-carved throne. His fingers drummed against the armrest, his jaw set tight.

‘His eyes… my eyes. Surely, that cannot be chance.’

He had seen many Elves in his life, Vanyar, Noldor, Sindar, Falmari, Nandor and Silvan alike, but none bore that precise shade of blue shot with grey. It was a feature distinct to his bloodline. The hue that stared back at him from his own mirror. He had recognized himself in the stranger the way a man recognizes blood kin.

His thoughts circled like ravens.

‘Was it her afterall? That fleeting summer in Doriath, when I was too bold, too foolish…’ He had laughed with her by the riverside, kissed her beneath the stars. They had parted without bond, but—had she carried a child from that night?

And if she had, why had she not spoken? Why had she vanished, leaving him ignorant?

His stomach turned. ‘Is he mine? Did I, in my arrogance, beget a son and abandon him without ever knowing?’

The thought gnawed at him, black and merciless. He could not bring it to Thranduil—not now, not ever. His son, still young, still learning, must not see his father doubting, must not hear whispers of old indiscretions.

No—this was a matter for an equal, one who knew the folly of youth and the burdens of rule.

He could only hope that Amdir of Lorien would arrive before him fast, so that he may confide and take counsel in him…

Oropher pressed a hand to his brow. “Eru preserve me,” he muttered. “What have I done? And who, by the stars, is this Legolas?”

Meanwhile, Legolas was led down quiet corridors, lanterns glowing softly against the stone. The Silvan maidens who guided him bowed their heads with kindness, though curiosity lingered in their eyes.

“Here,” one said, opening a carved door. Within was a chamber, modest yet warm, with tapestries of green forest and a bed draped in soft linens. “It is yours to rest in, until the king decides your place after their council meeting.”

Legolas stepped inside, the cloak slipping from his shoulders. His fingers brushed the smooth wood of the bedpost, the woven fabric of the blankets. It felt both achingly familiar and strange.

“Thank you,” he whispered.

The maidens inclined their heads and withdrew, leaving him alone.

For the first time since waking in this strange past, Legolas let himself sink to the bed. He buried his face in his hands, breath shuddering.

He had seen Oropher—his grandsire—and Oropher had seen him, recognized him in a way he dared not reveal.

And Thranduil… younger than he had ever dreamed to see him. Still gentle, still unscarred by centuries of shadow.

Tears pricked his eyes. “Ada,” he breathed, voice breaking. “I am here, and yet I am lost.”

The walls did not answer, only the quiet pulse of Greenwood’s heart beating all around him.

Chapter Text

Legolas was in reverie when ‘it’ came unwillingly…

He had tried to walk gentler paths.

Tried to let his mind wander the echoing beauty of the Glittering Caves, where crystal caught torchlight and turned it into stars, where his friends’ laughter had followed him like music through stone. He reached for that memory, for the warmth of shared wonder, for voices he trusted.

But the earlier memories were always stronger.

One heartbeat he stood beneath vaults of stone and silver.

The next, there was nothing.

The complete absence of light.

No edge to the dark.

Not the soft darkness of the forest, nor the quiet night beneath moon and stars. This was the suffocating kind. A darkness so absolute that even Elven sight found no anchor. His eyes strained uselessly, aching, seeing only black upon black, until sight itself seemed meaningless.

He felt instead.

The press of stone beneath him. The air, stale and unmoving, heavy in his lungs. The certainty of walls close enough to steal breath, though he could not see them. His own heartbeat sounded too loud in the void, a frantic thing, echoing in his ears.

Thirst burned through him.

It was a sharp, consuming ache—his mouth dry and cracked, his tongue thick and useless, every swallow scraping painfully down his throat. Hunger followed close behind, a hollow gnawing that made his limbs weak, his thoughts sluggish, his body tremble.

He shook uncontrollably.

Not from cold— Elves do not suffer so simply. His body knew the forest, the seasons, the bite of winter and the gentleness of spring. This was not the absence of heat.

This was deprivation.

The absence of sustenance.

And starvation that left him fragile, shaking, his strength leeched away drop by drop. Darkness that offered no relief, no change, no promise of dawn. His breath came unevenly, shallow and fast, as if the air itself were rationed.

His wrists ached.

A deep, phantom pain throbbed there, as though metal still bit into his skin. His ankles burned with the same remembered cruelty. He tried to move and found himself frozen, every attempt at motion swallowed by fear and exhaustion. The shackles were not there —but his body did not know that. It remembered too well.

‘Please,’ something in him begged, though he did not know to whom.

‘Please.’

He forgot Greenwood.

Forgot the bed beneath him, the clean sheets, the open window where forest air stirred. Forgot that he had been rescued, that this was past, that he was safe.

The memory was all there was.

A whimper broke from him, thin and broken, dragged unwillingly from his chest.

“Please… I will…”

No answer came.

The darkness did not change. The thirst burned hotter. His lips trembled as he swallowed again and again, desperate for moisture that would not come. Tears slipped from his eyes, warm against his skin, wasted — even they could not ease the ache in his throat.

“I will,” he whispered again, voice hoarse, barely sound at all. “Please…”

He wanted light.

Not even freedom — just light. A torch. A crack beneath a door. Anything to prove the world still existed beyond the dark. He longed for voices that did not command, hands that did not bind.

His friends.

His Ada.

“There is no light here…” he sobbed, the words breaking as they left him, despair folding in on itself.

Somewhere far away, he heard a voice.

They did not belong to the memory…not quite. They were softer, urgent, filled with something he could not name. They spoke to him, called him, moved around him. He felt the faint shift of air, the weight of a presence close by. Familiar, yet strange.

But his mind could not follow.

The sounds tangled and slipped away, meaningless against the overwhelming certainty of the dark. He could not turn toward them. Could not answer. His body lay rigid, paralyzed by remembered terror and need.

The cell closed in again.

Darkness pressed against him, endless and complete, carrying with it the unrelenting burn of thirst, the hollow ache of hunger, and a yearning so deep it hurt — for light, for warmth, for a hand that would not hurt him.

And still, the reverie did not release him.

The memory held fast, and Legolas was lost within it, trembling and sobbing, caught between a past that would not loosen its grip and a present he could no longer reach.

Then—

there was light.

At first, it was only a flicker. A fragile thing, barely more than a smear of gold against the black. Legolas’s breath caught painfully in his chest, fear flaring that it would vanish if he dared reach for it.

But it did not fade.

The light steadied, warm and real, and with it came a voice.

“Legolas,” she said softly.

His name again, and again…never sharp, never demanding.

“Come here. Come to the light, Legolas.”

The darkness loosened its grip.

His eyes, aching and unfocused, found the source of the glow.

A candle.

Its flame wavered gently, patient, as though waiting for him to see it. He could not move his body as he wished —his limbs remained heavy, unresponsive— but his gaze clung to the light, anchored by it.

He drew in a breath.

It shuddered through him, uneven, but it was air—clean, forest-sweet air— and he exhaled in trembling relief as sensation slowly returned, piece by piece.

“You are safe now, Legolas,” the voice said calmly.

“You are here in your room, Legolas.”

“You are on your bed, Legolas.”

“You are looking at a candle. Its light is soothing you, and bringing you back from reverie now, Legolas.”

Each sentence was a handhold.

With every word, the darkness retreated further, dissolving like mist before dawn. The ache in his chest eased. The pressure on his wrists and ankles dulled, then softened, until it was no longer pain but simply the memory of it, losing its edge.

His sight sharpened.

He saw the candle more clearly now… the slender stick of pale wax, the steady flame. Beneath it, another hand was cupped, catching the melting drops so they would not fall upon him.

Her hand.

Then her face.

She smiled when she saw his eyes truly focus, her expression gentle, unafraid, kind. Her eyes held no hunger, no expectation. Only…concern, and quiet triumph that he had returned.

“You have been rescued, Legolas,” she said simply.

He could not speak.

But he nodded.

Slowly, carefully, his gaze moved beyond her. He took in the room, and his breath hitched again, this time in something like wonder.

Candles stood everywhere: on shelves, on tables, along the windowsill, littered across the floor. Their light filled every corner, chased every shadow away.

There was no darkness here.

Not even a trace.

For here, there was no absence of light.

Something inside him unclenched.

And then he noticed her hand again — the wax pooled in her palm, the skin flushed where it touched her. Alarm cut through the lingering haze.

“You’re hurting yourself!” he exclaimed hoarsely, reaching for the candle — or trying to.

She was quicker.

With a practiced motion, she set the candle properly into its holder and wiped her wax-stained hand briskly on her apron.

“Worry not, Legolas!” she said cheerfully. “For it doesn’t hurt at all!”

He stared at her, disbelieving.

They both knew it was a lie.

But he did not call her out on it.

Instead, he swallowed and said softly, “Thank you.”

The words felt small compared to what she had done, but they were all he had.

She beamed at him, clearly pleased, and waved the gratitude away as if it were nothing.

“Of course I knew what to do!” she said brightly. “After all, you’re looking at the future Head Healer!”

His eyes widened as memories spent in the Royal Healing Halls gave name to the youthful face in front of him, “Head… healer?”

“That’s right!” she declared, placing her hands on her hips. “I may only be an apprentice now, but make no mistake, I shall make it big one day! Huahua!”

Her grin widened, eyes sparkling.

“And it’s nice to meet you, Legolas,” she added warmly. “My name’s Thlirwen!”

…

..

.

The great hall of the Woodland Realm was filled with low voices. Oropher sat at the head of the long table, golden hair spilling over his shoulders, eyes fixed on the flicker of torchlight. Beside him stood Thranduil.

The council was made up of seasoned elves—Sindar who had followed Oropher east, and Silvan lords who had accepted him as king. Their voices rose and fell, some measured, others harsh.

“He is Sindar, my king,” said Maerion, one of Oropher’s oldest companions. “Of that there can be no doubt. Look at him. He is no wild Wood-elf, though he was found among Men.”

“Which raises the greater question,” pressed Galadhor, a silvan chieftain. “Why was he among Men at all? Bound, beaten, kept like a beast? This is no place for an elf, Sindar or Silvan alike.”

A murmur of agreement swept the table.

Thranduil’s jaw tightened. “He gave us no answers.”

“Perhaps he is hiding something,” another councillor muttered darkly. “A spy? The Enemy grows ever nearer. Would it not be a cunning move to slip one of fair face and silver tongue into our midst?”

At that, Oropher’s eyes flashed dangerously. “Enough. I have looked into him. He is no creature of the Shadow. Whatever chains Men bound him in, they were not forged in darkness.

But even as he spoke with authority, a ripple of doubt slid beneath his voice—because he remembered the eyes. Those unmistakable eyes. His eyes.

Thranduil broke the silence. “He claims not to know his parents. That is strange enough. Do we simply take him at his word?”

Maerion leaned forward. “My king, forgive me, but… he could be of your kin. We all saw it. The likeness cannot be denied. Did you not—”

Oropher’s hand shot up, silencing him. A muscle in his jaw twitched, and for a moment, even Thranduil looked startled at the sudden tension in his father’s face.

“What I did in my youth,” Oropher said carefully, each word weighed as if it were a blade, “is no concern of this council.”

The hall fell silent.

Finally, Oropher exhaled and leaned back in his chair. “Until we know more, the elf remains under my protection. He shall not be questioned as a criminal, nor cast out as a stray. He will stay among us, watched, fed, and healed, until the truth of him is revealed.”

The council murmured assent, though unease lingered in the air. And as the voices rose again in debate—about where he should be lodged, how closely watched—Oropher’s gaze drifted once more toward the doors.

The ellon’s eyes haunted him still.

All had been decided, and Legolas had been given a chamber.

Small, but warm, with woven hangings on the walls and a bed of furs soft as moss. It was more than he had expected. Too much, even. After all, he had been a slave in chains only days before. To be given food and rest freely… it felt undeserved.

So when dawn came after he was basically fully healed and given approval by Thlirwen’s master, Legolas slipped from his room and found work.

At first it startled the elves. Here was the rescued stranger, pale and soft-voiced, asking if he might join the hunting party. He was swift footed in the woods, and though he carried no weapons of his own, he handled a bow with effortless grace. The hunters returned with more game than usual, and the cooks whispered that the mysterious elf’s arrows never missed.

The next day, he asked to help with the cooks themselves. They laughed at first, but he was quick to learn, quicker still to season the venison and root stew with herbs they seldom used, herbs he claimed, “felt right together.” The pot emptied faster than usual that evening, and the cooks began to ask him for advice.

Perks of knowing future recipes.

When not in the kitchens, he drifted to the loremasters’ chambers, carefully copying old texts, mending frayed parchment with deft fingers. His Sindarin script was flawless, elegant, as though he had spent centuries at it. And yet, when Oloron asked where he had learned, he only lowered his eyes and murmured, “I…taught myself…I had more than enough time back then.”

And still, he did not stop there. He helped mend nets for fishing, he carried stones for the builders, he crouched among Silvan gardeners, gently pressing seedlings into the soil with reverence as though each were kin. Some thought him strange, others shy, but none could deny he was diligent, tireless, and gifted.

The elves began to whisper.

“He is humble.”

“He works as though he were born to this realm, more so than the ones who actually are!”

“Strange… it is almost as if he knows what we need before we ask it.”

Legolas, for his part, tried not to let his eyes linger too long on familiar faces—elves who had always seemed timeless in his memory, now radiating the vigour of their prime; others who are now only elflings or unborn. His heart ached at the strange dissonance, but he pushed it down.

Now, when Oropher’s council watched from afar, they saw not a stray or a spy, but a youth trying desperately to belong. Even Feren, stern and suspicious, found himself pausing once or twice, watching as the elf worked in silence, his brow furrowed in focus, his movements graceful and precise.

The forest seemed to respond to him. Birds flitted closer. Leaves stirred when he passed. And though none could name why, many felt their home grew lighter when he was near.

It was in the garden terraces that it happened. Legolas had come to help with the new seedlings, kneeling in the damp earth with dirt smudging his pale hands. The gardeners worked in silence, but one among them—a broad-shouldered elf with steady hands—looked up and offered Legolas a smile.

“Here,” the elf said warmly, handing him a flask of water. “You’ve worked twice as long as the others. Rest a moment, little leaf.”

Legolas froze. He knew that voice. Knew that smile, that nickname, those steady hands.

Thoronthel.

In his own time, Thoronthel had been his captain, his brother-in-arms, and finally his shield in death—laying over Legolas to protect him, shielding him, giving his life so that Legolas might live. The memory was carved deep in his heart, a wound that had never fully closed. And here he was. Young. Alive. Smiling at him as if nothing had happened.

Legolas’s throat closed. His vision blurred. Before he could stop himself, hot tears spilled down his cheeks.

Thoronthel’s smile faltered, shocked. The other gardeners paused, uncertain. But Legolas quickly ducked his head, hands shaking as he tried to wipe his face.

“I—I am sorry,” he stammered, mortified. “Forgive me. Please. I did not mean—”

Thoronthel crouched beside him, alarm softening into gentleness. “Do not apologize…What has been done to you, to make a kind word strike so deep?”

“I…” Legolas could not answer. How could he? How could he explain the years, the battles, the loss? His voice cracked. “I am only… unused to such kindness.”

Thoronthel’s heart wrenched. To think, this poor elf, cast into chains by Men, stripped of dignity and warmth, so starved of gentleness that a simple gesture undid him. He placed a hand on Legolas’s shoulder, firm but steady.

“Then you shall become used to it. I promise you.”

Legolas’s breath caught. His chest ached so sharply he thought it might shatter. He bowed his head, whispering again, “Forgive me…”

But Thoronthel shook his head, and in his eyes burned a quiet vow: ‘No one will make you weep from hunger of the heart again. Not while I draw breath.’

And standing on a balcony above, half-hidden by the carved railing, Oropher had been watching.

He had come to see Legolas again for himself, to judge with his own eyes once more. In his own twisted thoughts, he had expected arrogance, perhaps bitterness, or a sly and mischievous aura. But what he saw instead was a youth breaking apart at a kindness so simple it should have been taken for granted.

Oropher’s chest clenched. He looked at Legolas’s tear-streaked face, the way his thin shoulders hunched as if bracing for punishment, and he thought, ‘What cruelty did he endure, to leave him like this?… Did my folly father this pain? If so…’

He has lost track of how many times guilt pricked him like a thorn under the skin.

…

..

.

Oropher’s chamber was lit only by the glow of a single brazier, shadows stretching long across the carved stone. The king sat in his high-backed chair, mind racing through all the doubts, he needed answers. He will not settle for silence, not tonight he told himself.

When the guards ushered Legolas inside, he dismissed them with a wave.

The door shut. Silence thickened.

Legolas bowed, uncertain. “You wished to see me, my lord?”

Oropher studied him, his piercing grey eyes flickering over every detail: the silver-gold hair, the straight nose, the set of his jaw, high cheekbones. But most of all, the eyes again—the same blue, storm-grey that stared back at him from his own mirror. His heart beat hard in his chest.

“I would know more of you,” Oropher said at last, his voice deep, measured. “You gave my people only your name.”

Legolas hesitated. He knew questions would come again and had rehearsed this moment in his mind, but now that Oropher’s gaze was upon him—his father’s gaze, fiercer than he had ever known—it was like standing on a knife’s edge. He could not tell the truth. He could not lie outright.

“My name is Legolas.” he said softly.

“Of what house?” Oropher pressed.

A pause. Legolas lowered his eyes. “I do not know.” ‘What to say.’

Oropher’s brows drew together. “You truly do not know your lineage?”

“My mother…” Legolas’s voice caught, but he forced himself to continue. “She died giving birth to me. I never knew her name.” ‘Ada kept it from me.’

“And…your father?”

“I also cannot say…” ‘Because it wouldn’t make any sense that your son is my ada…’

The words struck Oropher like a blade. He sat back sharply, breath leaving him in a hiss. A mother dead in childbed. A nameless father. A child abandoned, left to fate.

“And your earliest memory?” Oropher asked, his tone softer now, cautious.

Legolas closed his eyes. Instead of earliest—his ada’s lullaby—he searched for the deepest. His heart twisted with memories he could not speak—the burning of southern Greenwood, the corpses of his kin, Thoronthel’s body shielding his own. But he offered only a fragment, vague and raw.

“Flames,” he whispered. “Flames, and… voices… crying out. Also…darkness.” 

Oropher stiffened. In his mind’s eye, he saw again the smouldering ruins of Doriath, the fires that had chased him and his kin into exile, the bitter cost of their wandering. A child could have been lost in such chaos. A child of his own blood?

He swallowed hard, rising from his chair. For the first time, Oropher’s hand trembled as he reached out, then pulled back before he could touch Legolas’s shoulder. His voice was hoarse when he spoke.

“You… are welcome here. I have said it before, but I wish for you to accept it into your heart this time. Whatever past you cannot name, you are of my people now. No one shall harm you under my roof.”

Legolas bowed again, but his throat was too tight to form words. He only whispered, “Thank you, Aran nin.”

Oropher turned away before his composure slipped further. Alone, his mind raced.

‘Could he be mine? Some youthful folly, some forgotten night? Or an elleth wronged, bearing a son I never knew? By the stars, he has my eyes… and the look of me in his face. Have I condemned my own child to chains and sorrow without ever knowing?’

And as Legolas slipped quietly from the chamber, Oropher sat in the shadows, guilt gnawing at him like fire in his veins.

But the words lingered, and in Oropher’s mind the storm only grew darker.

Legolas’s vague replies. His eyes…his own eyes. His hair of silver-gold. His lack of lineage.

It was possible. Entirely possible.

That this was his son. His lost blood.

The answers just made his doubts grow increasingly certain…

And if so…then he was the worst father in all of Arda.

.

..

…

The night had not yet loosened its hold when Legolas slipped from the halls.

Dawn lingered somewhere beyond the eastern rim of the world, hesitant, unhurried. The sky was a deep, breathing blue, and the forest stood in that sacred stillness that belonged only to the hour before sunrise, when leaves listened, when roots remembered, when even the birds waited.

He walked barefoot upon the cool earth.

The reverie still clung to him, its echoes sharp and aching. Centuries stretched behind his eyes, years without bark beneath his palms, without leaves whispering his name, without the quiet communion that had once been as natural as breath. He had been allowed to see trees, once or twice, through iron and stone…but never to touch, never to speak, never to be answered.

The longing rose unbidden.

It hollowed his chest and guided his steps until he stopped before an old tree, broad-trunked and deep-rooted, its bark silvered with age and lichen. He knew it at once—not by name, but by presence. The way one knows kin.

He lifted trembling hands.

The moment his palms met the bark, something inside him broke.

A sound escaped him—soft, raw, neither sob nor word—as he pressed closer, arms wrapping around the trunk as though afraid it might vanish. His forehead came to rest against the tree, breath shuddering out of him.

“I am here,” he whispered, voice barely more than breath. “I am home.”

The forest answered.

Not in words, but in feeling—in the slow, deep thrum of life beneath the bark, in the answering warmth that rose to meet him. The tree leaned, ever so slightly, its branches creaking softly as though stretching after long stillness. Leaves stirred without wind. Roots shifted, subtle and sure, grounding him.

The tree embraced him back.

Sap sang beneath his hands, old and patient. As if it knew him. As if it had missed him.

A hush spread outward, ripple by ripple, through the forest. Other trees stirred, canopies whispering together, mourning and joy woven into the same breath. Dew gathered upon leaves like unshed tears, and somewhere deep in the greenwood, something ancient keened softly, and reverently for the child returned after too long kept away in chains.

Legolas slid down until he knelt at the tree’s base, arms still wrapped tight, cheek pressed to bark. The ache in his chest eased, replaced by a fullness so profound it stole his breath. The forest held him, gathered him up as gently as a mother would a wounded son.

You are ours, it seemed to say.

You always were. Your songs reached us.

He closed his eyes and let himself be lost in it—the living hush, the steady presence, the knowledge that he was seen and welcomed without question or demand. Here, there were no chains, no darkness that could not be pierced by root and leaf and growing light.

But Legolas did not stop at the forest floor.

The first touch of bark had not been enough… not after centuries of absence. His hands slid upward, finding holds by instinct rather than sight, and he climbed as easily as breath. The tree welcomed him without protest, branches shifting to offer support, leaves brushing his cheeks as though greeting an old friend.

Higher, then higher still.

He nestled among the boughs where vines draped themselves willingly across his shoulders and leaves tangled gently in his hair. The canopy cradled him, branches curving in a loose embrace as he pressed his cheek to the trunk and wrapped one arm around it, fingers splayed against living bark.

The forest rejoiced.

Mist curled low through the undergrowth, silver and soft, while sunlight spilled in slow, golden bands across the paths, catching on dew and leaf alike. Birds stirred earlier than they had any right to, their calls lighter, brighter. Roots stretched and settled. Leaves whispered in a thousand voices, all saying the same thing.

Safe.

Home.

Ours.

Child, of the forest.

Legolas breathed it in, eyes half-lidded, contentment settling into his bones. For a long while, he did nothing at all. Simply existed, held and holding, wrapped in green and warmth and the quiet certainty that he belonged.

That was when Thoronthel arrived.

He had set out early, basket looped over one arm, a small, curved foraging knife meant for mushrooms tucked at his waist. The forest felt… different this morning. Warmer. Brighter. As though it had smiled in its sleep and woken still smiling.

He slowed, frowning faintly. “Well,” he murmured to himself, “you’re in a fine mood today.”

Sunlight filtered down in broad, honeyed ribbons, and mist coiled lazily at his ankles. He followed the path absently, eyes scanning the ground for mushrooms — and then paused.

Something was wrong with the trees.

No — not wrong.

Occupied.

His gaze lifted, and there, tangled amid leaves and vines far above, was a flash of pale fabric. A night tunic. And hair — silver-gold, unmistakable, catching the dawn like spun light.

Thoronthel stopped dead.

“…Legolas?”

There was a rustle of leaves, and then a face peered down at him through the branches, serene and unguarded. Legolas smiled, a soft, untroubled thing, the kind of smile one wore only when the world was entirely as it should be.

“Good morning,” Legolas said, voice warm with sleep and sunlight.

Thoronthel forgot how to breathe.

“Oh,” he managed, after a moment. “Ah. Good morning. Yes. Good—” He cleared his throat. “You’re… quite high up.”

Legolas glanced around himself as though noticing this for the first time, then hummed softly in agreement. “Mm.”

There was a long, awkward pause.

Thoronthel shifted his basket, then stopped shifting it, then set it down altogether, knife forgotten at his side. He stared up again, brow furrowing with what might have been concern — or perhaps disbelief.

“…Do you,” he began carefully, “know how to come down from there?”

Silence.

Legolas’s smile lingered, but his gaze drifted back to the trunk, his arm tightening slightly around it. Leaves stirred, brushing his shoulders, and the tree leaned into him in quiet answer.

“In time,” Legolas said at last, nodding once.

Thoronthel blinked.

“Oh,” he said again. Then, after a moment, “Right.”

He stood there, unsure what to do with his hands, his thoughts, or the sudden certainty that he was intruding upon something sacred. The forest seemed to watch him expectantly.

Finally, he sighed.

“Well,” Thoronthel muttered, already reaching for the first branch, “it would be rude to shout at you from the ground.”

He climbed.

Not with Legolas’s effortless grace, but with practiced ease nonetheless, until he reached the broad bough where Legolas sat entwined in leaves and vine. Up close, he could see it clearly now — the way Legolas held the tree as one might cling to a lifeline, and the way the bark curved, branches arching protectively around him.

The forest held its child.

Thoronthel eased himself onto the branch beside him, careful not to disturb the quiet communion. After a moment, he said softly, “You know… I think the trees missed you.”

Legolas’s eyes watered.

“As did I.” he replied.

And for a while longer, neither of them felt any need to move. The gentle silence gradually begins to be replaced by Thoronthel casually pointing out birds, and mushrooms, and sunlight.

From farther away, in the quiet of his chamber, the ElvenKing saw them.

It was not his intent to watch. He had gone to the window out of habit more than purpose, drawn by the hush that lay upon the forest at that early hour. Dawn had not yet fully claimed the sky, and the Greenwood rested in a peace so deep it seemed to breathe.

His gaze fell, unbidden, upon the outer trees.

There—high among the branches—was a pale shape woven into leaf and vine. Another form sat beside it, broader, steadier. Recognition struck him at once, sharp enough to steal the air from his lungs.

Legolas.

Oropher stilled. He did not move closer. He simply stood where he was, one hand braced against the window frame, watching the forest cradle the boy he could not yet claim.

They were still. Unmoving. As though the world itself had paused to hold them.

A strange warmth spread through the Greenwood, perceptible even from stone and glass. The trees stood straighter. Leaves stirred without wind. The long ache that had haunted Oropher since Legolas’s return eased, just a little, as if something older and wiser had laid a hand upon his shoulder.

He stepped onto the balcony.

The air met him like a living thing—cool, green, fragrant with sap and morning dew. The forest felt… whole. Not merely awake, but content. At peace in a way it had not been for many long years.

Then came the whisper.

Not sound, not truly…more a knowing that settled into his bones, carried on root and leaf alike.

Take care of him.

Oropher’s breath caught.

Our child.

There was no mistaking it. He had heard the Greenwood speak before.

In warning, in grief, in quiet counsel—but never so clearly. Never with such gentle insistence.

His fingers curled against the stone railing. His throat tightened, and he swallowed hard.

“I fully intend to.” he murmured, the words rough but unwavering.

The forest seemed to sigh, leaves trembling softly in approval.

Oropher did not go to them. He did not call out, nor disturb the fragile, sacred stillness below. He remained where he was, hands resting upon the cool stone of the balcony, bearing witness only, letting the Greenwood keep Legolas for a while longer.

From this distance, his eye was drawn not only to the gold of his hair or the quiet way the forest curved around him, but to his form.

Seated beside Thoronthel, the difference was clear.

Thoronthel was tall and broad-shouldered, his hroa long settled into its full strength. His presence solid and sure. Even at rest, he carried the easy strength of one well-fed by forest and hearth alike, his stature neither questioned nor wanting. And beside him—

Oropher’s chest tightened.

Legolas seemed smaller.

Not simply slighter, as some Elves were by nature, but shorter by a measure that struck the eye once compared to others. Not frail, not sickly—there was no weakness in the lines of him—but diminished, as though something essential had once been withheld.

Oropher’s thoughts leapt unbidden to Thranduil.

Though he bore the look of one whose hroa should have reached its full measure, he stood a full head shorter than Thranduil—and before Oropher himself, he would have had to lift his gaze to meet his eyes. Not only that, but his limbs were finer, his frame lighter than any of them had been at that same age.

His eldest stood scarcely a few inches shorter than Oropher himself, built strong and straight, his hroa long since settled into its full stature. Father and son were clearly of one line.

Legolas...

And yet...by years, by reckoning, he should have been.

Oropher closed his eyes briefly, breath steadying as understanding took root. Hunger. Not a single season of it, nor a brief hardship, but long denial—centuries in which the body learned to conserve, to endure, to grow no more than necessity allowed.

The thought stirred an older memory, unbidden.

A child drawn from the shadows of a fortress of Men, hollow-eyed, too light in the arms that carried him. Sustenance lacking. Growth delayed. A body enduring where it should have flourished.

Oropher had not named the cause then, nor did he name it now. He merely set the images beside one another and found them uncomfortably aligned.

If hunger had shaped the child’s hroa, if want had marked him so deeply that even Greenwood’s long years could not fully undo it, then that was a failing no realm should permit.

His jaw set.

'So be it. I shall provide it for him.'

He did not name it favouritism. He would never allow it to be called so. This was not indulgence, nor preference, nor the soft weakness some ascribed to love.

It was law.

Whatever the truth of the boy’s blood—whatever name he might one day claim—this much Oropher knew with kingly certainty:

So long as his line ruled beneath these boughs, none within the Greenwood would ever be diminished by hunger again. Not by neglect. Not by scarcity. Not by silence.

Not child, nor soldier, nor stranger taken into his halls—nor one he even dared suspect might be of his own blood.

He looked over his kingdom before returning his gaze to the quiet figure in the branches.

“Eat,” he vowed silently, not as a father, but as a king. “Grow. Be whole.”

And as if to seal that unspoken resolve, the forest itself seemed to stir as if it heard, and approved.

In the years that followed, Greenwood yielded harvests the like of which had not been seen before—rich, enduring, abundant beyond need—sustaining the realm not merely for a season, but for centuries, as though the land itself had taken the vow into its keeping.

…

..

.

Thranduil had been sharpening his blade when he noticed it. His father, the ElvenKing, was distracted.

It began subtly.

Oropher’s gaze lingering too long whenever the stranger, Legolas, passed in the halls. A softness to his voice when he spoke the name. And then, small allowances, better quarters, finer clothes, an invitation to dine closer to the royal table.

Thranduil did not understand it. How his adar would freely give his time without being asked to Legolas. He had fought hard to earn such privileges, had bled and trained and studied under the harsh light of Oropher’s expectations. And yet here was this—this Greenleaf, appearing from nowhere, admitted into their company as though he had always belonged.

It needled him.

So when Legolas was led past him one morning, hair gleaming like pale sunlight, Thranduil could not hold his tongue.

“You have gained my father’s favour quickly,” he said, voice sharp though his expression was controlled. Feren from beside him shot him a look but he ignored it.

Legolas paused, uncertain, clutching the basket of scrolls he had been carrying for the loremasters. “I do not seek favour…” he murmured, eyes lowered.

That only stoked Thranduil’s temper. “And yet you have it.”

Legolas flinched as though struck. Thranduil felt a sting of guilt immediately, but pride held his tongue. He turned on his heel and stalked away, jaw tight.

But later, at council, his suspicion deepened. He caught Oropher watching Legolas with an expression he had never seen on his father before—protective, pained, almost… guilty.

It twisted in Thranduil’s chest. He sat rigid at his place, saying nothing, though his thoughts churned.

‘Who is this stranger, that he should stir such feelings in my father? Why does he look at him so? What does he see, that he does not see in me?’

And Oropher, catching his son’s storm-grey eyes across the council table, misread the tension entirely. He thought, with a pang of sorrow, ‘If only you knew, ion-nín. If only you knew this elf may be your brother.’

…

..

.

Thranduil had slipped away from the scriptorium as soon as the tutor’s back was turned, his quill tossed onto the parchment in disgust. Numbers and tallies, taxes and trade—what did it matter?! He was meant to be a warrior, not a keeper of ledgers. He slipped down the corridors of the palace, seeking fresh air like a hunted stag.

He found a quiet alcove near the gardens and dropped onto the stone bench, arms crossed, jaw tight.

And of course, that was when the stranger found him.

“Ad—Prince Thranduil?”

Thranduil started, glancing up to see Legolas standing there with a bundle of herbs in his hands, clearly just returned from helping the healers. His expression was open, curious, but not intrusive.

“What do you want?” Thranduil muttered, sharper than he intended.

Legolas tilted his head. “I only wondered why you sit here alone, when the lessons are not yet finished.”

Thranduil snorted. “Lessons. Ledgers. Columns of numbers. I have no patience for such things. They are useless.”

Legolas blinked, then sat down beside him, uninvited but not unwelcome. “Useless? Do you not wish to rule wisely one day?”

“I will rule with the sword and crown,” Thranduil said stubbornly. “Not with… with figures and ink.”

For a moment, Legolas only watched him, torn between laughter and grief. How like his Ada he was—bold, proud, yet so young still. He took a steadying breath, and then spoke softly.

“Tell me… when your warriors march, do they not need food?”

Thranduil frowned. “…Of course.”

“And if the food runs out?”

“They starve.”

Legolas nodded. “So. The ledgers tell you how much grain you have, how much can be spared, and how long it will last. Would you not rather know such things, before your warriors weaken?”

Thranduil blinked, staring at him. Slowly, the boy’s scowl softened into thought.

“And coin,” Legolas continued gently. “It is not only metal. It is the strength of the realm. Coin buys arms. Coin repairs bridges. Coin feeds the young and the old alike. If you do not know how to count, to plan, to weigh what comes in and what goes out… then you may win battles, yes. But you will lose your kingdom.”

The words struck deep, simple yet true. Thranduil looked down at his hands, curling and uncurling his fingers. “No one explained it like that before,” he admitted grudgingly.

Legolas smiled faintly. “Then your tutors should teach you as they would a commander—not a scribe. For every figure is a weapon, if you know how to wield it.”

Thranduil turned his head to look at him then, really look at him. This stranger, this elf of unknown birth, speaking as though he carried centuries of wisdom in his voice. For the first time, admiration flickered in his young eyes.

“…Perhaps,” Thranduil muttered, standing quickly to hide his own embarrassment. “Perhaps it is not entirely useless.”

Legolas’s smile widened just slightly, though his heart ached. If only Thranduil knew how many times he had heard these same arguments from himself, long years later.

The next few days, Thranduil kept finding excuses to linger near Legolas. He told himself it was curiosity, or annoyance, or even duty—but the truth was more complicated. He wanted to hear more of those explanations, the way the stranger made dull things seem… alive.

.

..

…

The council chamber smelled faintly of parchment and pine-resin candles, but Oropher could not breathe easy within it. He sat in his carved chair, hands steepled, while his advisors spoke one after another about the foundling youth.

“He says his mother died in childbirth,” one murmured.

“And he remembers fire,” said another. “That sounds to me like he comes of Doriath. Many were scattered in the flames when the city fell.”

A third elf, older, frowned. “Or Sirion. Many burned there too. Yet no name given, no father claimed? And the darkness, obvious code for the evil! Suspicious.”

Oropher heard their words but scarcely listened. His mind returned again and again to his might-be son, Legolas.

What sort of life had this child lived? And why, Valar help him, did Oropher’s heart ache with such recognition whenever he looked at him?

“My lord?” one of the councillors prodded gently. “What are your thoughts?”

Oropher stirred, ready to summon some vague reply, when the doors opened. A guard stepped in, bowed.

“Aran nin. Your guest has arrived, Amdir of Lorien.”

Relief coursed through Oropher like a fresh breath. He rose at once, dismissing the council with a wave of his hand. “We shall resume another time. For now, rest. Leave him in peace.”

He did not wait for further questions.

…

..

.

In the quiet of his private solar, Oropher faced the tall figure who had come at his request.

Amdir of Lórien stood at ease, his bearing calm and rooted, as though the forest itself had taught him stillness. Silver threaded his dark hair like moonlight caught among leaves, and his cloak bore the faint scent of mallorn-bloom and river mist. There was nothing hurried in him—only the patience of one who had watched centuries unfold and learned when to speak.

“You came,” Oropher said at last, his voice low, weighted with something he would not show before his councillors. “Thank the stars you came.”

He paced once, twice, then halted, shoulders taut.

“I have a boy under my roof. An elf who should not exist—and yet he does. He is… young, though he does not know his true age, and yet he bears knowledge that does not fit him. He claims little, names no kin, and yet—”

Oropher faltered, his jaw tightening as though the words resisted being spoken aloud.

“When I look upon him, my heart tells me he is mine. My own blood. And I am terrified of what that may mean.”

Amdir did not interrupt. He remained silent, attentive, his gaze steady as Oropher paced the chamber. Only when Oropher stilled did he speak, his voice quiet, even, and unflinching.

“Tell me all, Oropher,” he said. “From the beginning. Why do you believe this child may be yours?”

Oropher’s hand clenched at the back of a chair. For a long moment, he warred with himself. Then, with a sharp breath, he sat.

“In my youth—before I was wed, long before Greenwood was ever ours—I was reckless. I was not the careful king you see now.”

His gaze fell to the floor.

“I lay with a fair elf of Doriath. She was kind. Gentle. I gave little thought to consequence. We parted soon after. I never saw her again.”

His voice thickened, shame weighing heavily upon it.

“I told myself it was nothing. That if she had conceived, surely I would have been told. But she vanished. And now this boy comes to me—claiming no father, no name. His mother, he says, died bringing him into the world. His earliest memory is of flame, of screaming, of darkness.”

Oropher swallowed.

“His skills… his knowing… they belong nowhere, and yet everywhere. And Valar help me—when I look upon him, something in me knows.”

He pressed his palms together, staring down at them as though they bore the sum of his failures.

“I see myself in his eyes,” he said hoarsely. “And I do not know what to do.”

Amdir leaned forward then, resting his forearms upon his knees. There was gravity in his gaze, but no judgment.

“So you fear,” he said slowly, “that in your youth you fathered a son you never knew. And that the long turning of the world has carried him to your halls at last.”

“Yes,” Oropher admitted, the word barely a breath. “And I am drowning in it.”

“Oropher,” Amdir said gently, “I will not mock you. Many of us were reckless before wisdom took root. You are not the first to seek comfort without seeing the road it may lead to. If what you fear is true, it does not dishonour you—though it does ask much of you now.”

Oropher let out a broken laugh, dragging a hand over his face.

“It is dishonour enough,” he said. “To think I might have left a son without name, without care. To know he wandered into chains and degradation while I ruled in safety and splendour…”

His voice broke.

“Valar forgive me.”

Amdir reached out then, placing a steady hand upon Oropher’s arm—grounding, present.

“Peace,” he said. “You do not yet know the truth. He may be yours—or he may not. But whether he is of your blood or not, you are moved because he has suffered. That, at least, speaks well of you.”

His gaze softened, a rare warmth stirring beneath the composure of a long-lived lord.

“And your heart,” Amdir added quietly, “is not given to false knowing. If it calls to you so strongly… then let us seek the truth together.”

They rose together—Oropher silent and grim, Amdir thoughtful—and crossed the halls, their footsteps echoing until the air grew warmer and stone gave way to green. The outer gardens lay ahead, sun-drenched and hushed, where Legolas had been left to rest.

The young elf sat with quill and parchment, head bent in concentration, copying a passage one of the scribes had given him. His hand was steady, his posture effortless. Strands of bright gold hair caught the light, and when he lifted his head at a bird’s trill, the afternoon sun traced his profile—his eyes, unmistakable and clear.

Amdir stopped.

Not abruptly, but utterly.

His breath stilled. His gaze fixed, sharpened—not with surprise alone, but with recognition. For a long moment he said nothing at all.

Then, very softly, “…Ah.” as though the words surprised even him, he murmured, “Damn.” He glanced sideways at Oropher. “That's yours.”

Oropher swallowed. His jaw worked once, twice. The colour drained from his face, and for several heartbeats he could not speak.

Amdir moved to the low railing and rested a hand upon it, his eyes never leaving Legolas as the boy bent once more to his parchment with a grace that looked practiced—almost princely. Oropher, meanwhile, appeared very much as though he wished the earth would open and spare him further revelation.

At length, Amdir spoke again, his tone mild, but edged keenly enough to cut.

“You have no long-lost brothers you neglected to mention?”

Oropher shot him a glare sharp enough to draw blood. “No.”

“Nor cousins with that particular shade of hair,” Amdir continued calmly, “and those exact same eyes?”

“…No.”

“And Thranduil,” Amdir went on, unhurried, “unless you've been keeping secrets about how time itself works, is far too young.”

Oropher groaned and dragged both hands down his face.

“Please, mellon-nîn,” he muttered. “Spare me further clarity. I surrender.”

Amdir’s mouth curved—not quite a smile, but very nearly.

“Well,” he said, after a moment’s thought, “if the Valar wished to make their point unmistakable, I would say they have shown admirable restraint.”

Oropher let out a sound that might once have been a laugh, had it not caught painfully in his throat.

“Then accept my observation,” Amdir added, more gently now. “This is no mere coincidence. You appear to be the father of two.”

“Valar curse you,” Oropher muttered, pacing several steps before stopping short, fists clenched at his sides. His voice dropped, roughened.

“If this is true—if that boy carries my blood—what am I meant to say to him? What explanation can I offer for abandoning him? For never knowing he existed at all?”

“Perhaps,” Amdir replied after a moment, “the truth.”

Oropher let out a humourless breath.

“That you were reckless. That you believed silence meant absence. That the world does not always send word when consequences are born.” Amdir’s voice softened, and he laid a steady hand on Oropher’s shoulder. “But let us not outrun ourselves. There is a way to be more certain—or as near to certainty as our kind is granted.”

Oropher turned to him then, suspicion and desperate hope warring openly in his eyes.

“How?”

“An ancient test,” Amdir said. “Blood answering blood. It cannot name you father and son—but it will tell whether he belongs to your line. And as you were an only child, and Thranduil is but an ellon…” His brow lifted slightly. “You see where this leads.”

Oropher exhaled slowly, the breath shaking despite his effort to steady it.

“Yes,” he said. “I see.”

He straightened. The pallor remained, but the bearing of a king settled into his spine—iron beneath the shock.

“Do it,” he said. “If the Valar mean to mock me with the reflection of my own eyes, then let them also bear witness to the truth. I will not live with doubt.”

“Very well,” Amdir said, inclining his head. “Then we—”

“Wait.”

Amdir paused, turning back to him.

“Wait… ah—well.” Oropher cleared his throat, his gaze drifting once more to the boy in the sunlight. “There is no need to do it… immediately. Surely there is no great urgency—”

Amdir studied him in silence.

For a heartbeat, for two.

Then, very softly, with unmistakable incredulity threaded through the calm, “…You… hesitate.”

Oropher did not rise to the bait. His eyes lingered on Legolas, troubled, unsteady.
“For once,” he muttered, “I am thinking of the cost before the result.”

Amdir blinked.

Once.

‘By the stars,’ he thought. ‘Hesitation.’

The Oropher he had known—fire-blooded, forward-striking, forever acting first and reasoning afterward—would have already demanded answers, drawn steel, or shaken the truth from the world by force of will alone.

And now—

His mouth curved despite himself. Not laughter. Never that. But the ghost of it.

“Well,” he said dryly, “the Valar truly are full of wonders.”

Oropher shot him a look, half warning, half plea.

Amdir inclined his head, the humor fading as swiftly as it had come.
“Jests aside,” he said more gently, “that tells me everything.”

His gaze returned to Legolas, and this time it held no amusement at all.

“That,” he finished quietly, “is how I know this matters.”