"Here," said Aradan as he handed a skin of wine to his friend. It had been centuries since Aradan had seen Thranduil like this, relaxed, sprawled against the trunk of a tree sipping wine. It was strange, for in spite of the strange message from the trees just the day before, the king seemed more alive than he had been in long, long time, and despite the potential for political strife over the appearance of this, strange lord, he seemed - relaxed. Aradan could not quite fathom it, and so he proceeded with caution, as was befitting a Chief Councillor to a king.

"I have missed this," said the councillor.

Thranduil watched his friend and then smiled. "You are a good councillor, Aradan, but a better friend. I know of your sorrow these past years, I can see it in your eyes and I am sorry for that."

What miracle had brought this about Aradan could not rightly say. Aye, Thranduil had a measure of skill as a listener of trees, just as his father had, but it was not comparable in any way, it would seem, to the abilities his Silvan son had developed. Nevertheless, what the king had heard had been enough it seemed, to draw him out, at least enough to be here, as he was now, relaxed and reminiscent of bygone times. The king's grief was still there, in his eyes, firmly anchored behind the extraordinary blue grey eyes but something had been awoken.

"The trees have reached you in a way I have not been able," Aradan said, hoping to prompt the king into a sustained conversation.

"Have I been that absent, my friend? Have I neglected my land so much?"

"Yes," said Aradan frankly. "I knew, I knew you were not, perhaps aware, but while you have administered the lands you have not ruled as such. One of the consequences is your uncle's rise in popularity, him and his vision of how this land should be ruled, a vision that is not yours, nor mine. He has taken advantage of your apparent - despondence."

"You believe his following has become - troublesome?" asked the king thoughtfully.

"Yes, although perhaps not to the point of no return. If we react now, it can be undone, at least so that it becomes - irrelevant."

"And what of the damage to my family, Aradan? I see Rinion every day, his descent into bitterness. His heart is still there but I cannot reach it."

"You have not tried, Thranduil. You were too much inside yourself, inside your thoughts and emotions..."

"Wallowing in self-pity, you mean?"

"No, not that. I do believe you lost your self-esteem somewhere along the line. True, you have not tried to pull Rinion back, but neither has he tried to reach you. Handir, however, is different."

Thranduil smiled as he thought on his second son. "Yes, he is more like the queen, whereas Rinion is - he looks more like me, yet in character he reminds me so much of my own father."

"You are right in that, Thranduil. And yet Bandorion's influence on Rinion is worrying - it is turning him bitter - fuelling his negative emotions towards you. That too, needs to be addressed. He is a lieutenant, but if he continues in this way, Commander Hûron will never allow him to be anything more, all that he is Sindar."

Thranduil's eyebrows rose in surprise. "I did not know that..."

"It is not common knowledge, just comments here and there that have led me to believe this. I am close to Huron, as you know. It is Handir that is progressing well. He has excelled in his calling as a statesman, and with Erestor's guidance in Imladris, you will have a valuable councillor at your side, Thranduil -he is a fine, loyal son."

Thranduil's eyes were far away, although he did smile at Aradan's praise of his second son.

"What are you thinking on?" asked Aradan softly, taking a swig of wine to quell his mounting nerves, his eyes searching his friend for any clues as to his mindset.

"Can you imagine, at all, Aradan? Can you read my thoughts?" asked the king wistfully, as if he were far, far away.

"I could guess..."

"And," prompted the king quietly, absently.

"You dwell on Lassiel ..." said Aradan, resisting the urge to close his eyes. But then he realised he must have done, for when he opened them, Thranduil's face was before him, startling the advisor so that his breath caught in his throat.

"Aradan. I am king, I have a measure of ability with the trees and in these last centuries, I have listened to them more than I have to the elves that I dwell amongst. I cannot hear their words but I feel their emotions, sometimes better than others when they simply confuse me." He chuckled weakly then. "I often seek comfort in their song, for around me I find only suffering, and my own memories." His face turned back to Aradan then, and for a moment he seemed to feel pity for the councillor.

"Say what it is you have kept from me, Aradan, say what my heart already believes..."

Aradan, partially recovered from his shock, now furrowed his brows. Was Thranduil truly saying he had suspected them all this time? That he had an inkling as to the news Aradan would give him? It could not be, surely. Nay he would not make the mistake of believing Thranduil had even the slightest suspicion of the nature of it and so, he plunged into it head first, with a courage that was on the point of failing him.

"Thranduil, we believe Lassiel may be - may be dead, my friend ..."

Aradan watched his friend's face which was, as yet, as blank as it had been for many years, and for many moments it stayed that way, until the king looked to the floor, and then nodded his understanding. Rising to his feet slowly, he tilted his face to the full, white moon, and for a moment allowed her soft rays to illuminate his face - a blank face that slowly turned to sadness, grief, and acceptance, and with this last emotion, his milky white skin regained its lost glory of elder days, his spirit shining a little stronger than it had just moments before. His words, when he finally did speak, were soft, yet they carried upon the air so clearly Aradan wondered if there was magic in them, if perhaps Thranduil had spelled them so that they would carry, as far away as she surely was now.

"Lassiel. Sweet Lassiel." Thranduil paused for a moment, surprised, thought Aradan, at the power that one name had when spoken aloud. "Do you rest in the arms of Mandos? Do you sleep in the gardens of Lorien? Do you dwell once more in the lands of the Valar? Will I ever see your face once more?"

Aradan's own eyes closed, and when he opened them again the world was a blur and he blinked furiously. He had not expected this reaction from his friend, and he certainly had not expected Thranduil to have already suspected his lover was dead.

The king turned back to Aradan, his face no longer blank and rigid but pliant and expressive. "I have not felt her presence for seven hundred and fourty-three years, Aradan, and although I hoped and prayed that it was my grief at her absence that sought to believe the worst of all the possibilities, now that you have told me - I know I was simply deceiving myself. I have been lost for all those years, lost in my endeavour to find her, to place her on the map of my imagination... Thank you for telling me," he said kindly, with a soft smile. "I know this must have been difficult for you to do, my friend. I have finally lost her, and the child we both thought would save her ...."

Aradan's eyes widened for a moment, for he had not realised the king had come to that conclusion. Indeed he berated himself for not having clarified that point earlier.

"Thranduil, you may ask how I came about this knowledge..."

The king's head cocked to the side, and then he nodded.

"Lieutenant Lainion and Captain Turion came to me after an incursion in the South, an incursion with the novices - remember the plan we devised?"

"I do, go on," said the king, sitting once more to listen to Aradan's tale.

"They came to me in confidence because one of those warriors had, inadvertently, drawn attention to himself. You may remember one day at the breakfast table with Rinion. We spoke of one they call The Silvan..."

"Aye, Rinion wanted to meet him."

"I could not allow that, Thranduil. That boy, that child has, or so they say, the face of a Sinda and the heart of a Silvan. Thranduil, his eyes are the brightest green I have ever seen, and his face - his face is that of your father's - he is your son, Thranduil, The Silvan is Lassion.."

Thranduil's eyes rounded and suddenly became too bright. His shock was not masked now as his jaw opened slightly, as if he would speak, but he did not and looked back to Aradan, as if pleading for him to anticipate the questions that would not leave his frozen mouth.

"The first thing I will say is that there can be no mistake. He is seven hundred and forty-three years old, a newly appointed warrior and has lived all his life, until last year, in a village called Lland Galadh, under the tutorship of Amareth - sister of Lassiel..."

"What if he is Amareth's child? I mean..."

"No, by her own admission, this child is the son of Lassiel - she knows the truth but she has not disclosed Lassiel's fate, she will not speak of it."

There was shocked silence and still, Thranduil could not seem to form the words he needed for so many questions Aradan knew would be overwhelming him.

"Thranduil - do I stop or shall I continue?" Aradan needed a sign, a sign that the news was welcome else he give away too much."

"This is why you assume she is dead? Because the child is here on Arda?"

Aradan simply nodded and Thranduil looked away for a moment, before speaking once more.

"She would never have left him behind. She would not have done what the queen did to her own children," he mused quietly, before his face changed and the question was out of his mouth almost before he could consider it.

"What is his name?" asked the king softly.

Aradan smiled tentatively, the seed of hope starting to germinate in his mind. "Do you remember, that special day when you first told me of her? When we were both still so young and full of ideals? She had gifted you with one small thing, something I know you kept."

The king looked down for a moment, and Aradan knew the battle that waged in his friend's mind, only his iron will stilling the tears from falling.

"She remembered that, Thranduil. It was the most precious thing to her I would wager, for she named her son after that one, small act, that proclamation of love for you..."

Thranduil smiled back at Aradan, through the silent tears that would no longer be restrained.

"Green leaf - she called him Greenleaf..." whispered the King, and Aradan smiled.

TSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTS

The blackness of night gave way to the deep blue of the sun's slow awakening. Not yet dawn, not quite time to return to their camp and their duties.

Legolas remained where he had fallen the night before, only now he sat cross-legged, his long hair falling around him, as if it could somehow shield him from the onslaught of his own emotions, or perhaps from the worried eyes of his friends.

Even now, he could not bring himself to remember the words, could not say the name of his father, his mother, not even in his own mind. He felt inadequate, unable to administer his own emotions, ashamed for not being able to hold his own, for being a weakling.

It was absurd and a part of him still could not grasp the truth, not entirely. Yet Lainion would not have told him this unless he had been sure. Indeed it all fit, and he thought back to the day they had returned from the South; the elf that had hailed him as 'Lord', or Narosén the Spirit Herder and his cryptic words, Lainion's friend Calen, who had assumed he was Lassiel's son. Lassiel, his mother... And finally he thought back to the day he became a novice, to those blue eyes that had stared back at him in as much shock as he himself had felt - his brother.

There was a battle raging in his mind. He knew the truth of it but he simply could not bring himself to believe it, to say it, to put it into words. He could not even fathom how he felt about it all.

He heaved a mighty breath and raised his head to the early morning light, his eyes still closed. It was cold, and that was the first thought that slowly, began to pull him from his introspection.

His muscles ached, his head felt too heavy and a dull ache pressed on the back of his neck, but he opened his eyes nonetheless, and then wondered what colour they would be, whether they still shone as if a demon were inside him. He had frightened them all, and then he mentally scoffed at himself and his stupid words. He had terrified himself! He was still terrified...

Funny, he mused. For the first time in his life, that ever present question was no longer there, on his lips, in his mind, scratching at his heart.

'Who am I?'

He was Legolas, Legolas Lassion, bastard son of Thranduil.

His heart skipped and fluttered and he breathed through the odd rhythm until it beat steadily once more.

Looking around him now, he saw three elves, still asleep upon the ground, but Idhrenohtar had come to kneel before him, watching quietly, silent save for the friendship that shone in his grey eyes.

Legolas could not speak, not yet.

His eyes strayed to the trees that surrounded them and he wondered what he would feel should he reach out and touch them. 'No, don't,' he said to himself. Too many emotions, too much to feel. If he had learned anything at all about himself last night, it was that he was still a child in this one thing; he was still not able to completely control his emotions.

Turning back to Idhrenohtar, he wondered what his friend would be thinking now, now that he too, knew of his heritage, had seen the change in his eyes, had witnessed the complicity of the trees. Would they think it witchcraft? Would they think him unnatural? Would their attitude towards him change, now that they knew the truth? Had he gained one brother, only to lose two?

Nay, he berated himself, not that, not The Company - they, were his true brothers, they were his family, and as much as it irked him, he needed them now, would need them in the days to come. The task of facing this truth, and for others to know of it, seemed insurmountable. What was he to say? What was he at liberty to say?

Ram en' Ondo and Lindohtar stirred beside him, slowly sitting up and glancing at Legolas first, and then at Idhrenohtar, who had taken the last watch over their friend.

"We should return," said Idhrenohtar softly. "We must continue as if nothing has happened brothers. As far as everyone else is concerned and should the subject arise, Legolas has received some bad news from home. Later we will speak to Lainion and take things from there, one day at a time. Legolas?" he called, drawing his friend's eyes to his own, "one day at a time, alright?"

After a moment of silence, Legolas simply nodded, and then stood slowly, accepting Ram en' Ondo's steadying hand, a silent apology in his eyes.

Their walk back to camp was equally silent, the air around them charged with apprehension and worry, and before anyone could notice, they were seated at their hearth, boiling water over a fire, watching as the rest of the troop slowly awoke and began to organise themselves.

"Idhreno," said Ram en' Ondo, quiet and urgent, "Lainion must surely come soon. I have no idea what to say should any of last night's events transcend - they must have noticed the trees..." he said, watching as Lindo passed Legolas a steaming mug of tea.

Legolas accepted it quietly with a nod and clasped it in both hands, the heat no doubt a small comfort to his troubled mind.

"I hope you are right, Ram en'," whispered Idhreno as he cast his eyes to the trees around them. "Caution brothers. We must shield him as best we can, give him some time to come to terms with his - heritage."

Lindo and Ram en' nodded, but their faces were a mirror of their troubled minds. Legolas was a son of the king, and he had a gift none of them understood, one Legolas could not control.

TSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTS

Lainion would not see The Company until much later, for Handir had surprised him on his return to the royal tent.

Ducking his head inside, he had found Handir still awake, only partially visible in the weak light.

"Is it done?" asked the prince quietly.

Lainion approached and sat, and then ran a trembling hand over his face. "Forgive me, Handir. It was, not as I had imagined... he is mature beyond his age in most things, but the news I gave him was hard for him to accept - made me remember how very young he still is." His voice had been thready and weak, but after what Lainion had just witnessed, he could not keep the weight of his emotions from spilling into his words.

"He is upset?" asked the prince.

"Yes - and furious - and then ashamed - so many things, Handir. But there is one thing I did not expect at all."

"What was that?" prompted the prince softly.

"His gift - it - manifested itself spontaneously - he must learn to dominate it - whatever it is. It is strong yet the nature of it is still not completely clear. He may well get himself into trouble if he does not control it."

"What happened? Surely it cannot..."

"It is," interrupted Lainion abruptly. "His eyes, Handir, his eyes glowed like a thousand fireflies and it is terrifying," he whispered, his own frightened Avarin eyes glinted as they came to rest on Handir's. "Whatever it is, I am glad we travel to Imladris, for I fancy Elrond will be of some help."

"Perhaps," said Handir thoughtfully. "Yet we have not thought on what to say when he is recognised. When I saw him in the tent earlier, it was my grandfather staring back at me, Lainion. It is uncanny, and where we are headed, there will be no doubt at all in their minds as to his heritage."

"I know. I thought perhaps we could speak to Elrond on our arrival. Be honest with him, tell him this information has not yet transcended in the Greenwood - I am sure he would keep our best interests at heart."

"Aye, and Lord Erestor will be invaluable insofar as to what we should do, indeed if anything should be done. I will think more on it and we will speak again during our ride tomorrow. And, and Lainion?"

"Aye"

"You have done well. That must not have been easy."

Lainion stared back at his charge, his eyes steady and his jaw set. "It was not."

TSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTTSTSTSTSTSTS

He had fallen asleep, against his best efforts to remain awake. The wine and the stress of his conversation with the king had obviously taken a bigger toll on him than he had thought.

Rising slowly, he stretched his sore muscles and cast his eyes around the area where they had made their humble camp, spotting their two guards in the distance.

Thranduil, however, was nowhere to be seen and so Aradan picked up their packs and walked towards the guards, who saluted as he came to stand before them.

"The king?" he asked, to which they simply nodded in the direction he should take.

Soon enough, Aradan came to the banks of a small stream where a mighty willow arched over the slowly flowing water. Upon its bough, the king was perched. Aradan watched him for a moment, marvelling at the sight, for in spite of his plain riding clothes and loose silver-blond hair, he could never be mistaken for anyone other than what he was. A king.

Not wishing to interrupt, Aradan accommodated himself upon the loamy banks and waited patiently, plucking a stone and then turning it in his hands, the rhythmic action helping to quell his mounting anxiety.

"Aradan," acknowledged the king.

"Thranduil," answered the councillor as he tossed the stone into the water, listening for the hollow sound as it hit the surface. He would wait, wait for the king to set the tone of their conversation now, for in all honesty, Aradan simply did not know what to expect.

"You must say goodbye now," said the king softly, and Aradan's heart dropped to the soles of his boots. 'What have we done,' he said to himself as he waited with baited breath for the king to continue.

"Your news has brought me closure, Aradan, an end to the torment of not knowing, because when you do not know you cannot accept, and if you cannot accept you grieve - is that not how it works?" he asked softly.

"It sounds reasonable," said Aradan, his breath oddly short as he answered.

"Now that I know, I can, perhaps, learn to accept - but only this; that we will be parted for many years to come, but that I will see her again for you see now - I know where to look..."

Aradan's mind echoed the king's words in his mind like a desperate mantra - 'you must say goodbye...' He was leaving then, leaving for Aman...

"Aradan, a part of her is still here, on Arda. You must say goodbye now, goodbye to a grieving king - he has gone ..."

Aradan watched with round eyes as the king gracefully descended the tree and walked slowly yet purposefully towards him and for a moment Aradan thought he moved too slowly, yet before he could blink once more, the king was almost upon him.

"He has gone ... and in his place is Thranduil, king of Greenwood the Great, father of Maeneth, Handir, Rinion and - Greenleaf."

Aradan's skin prickled uncomfortably and he gasped at the sudden sensation, and then furrowed his eyes as his mind slowly processed the implications.

"You are staying? You are back?" he whispered in awe.

"Aye, Aradan. I am back," and when the king answered him, his voice was strong and vibrant. His eyes were no longer unfocussed and distant, dull and crushingly sad. Gone was the hunched posture, the distracted answers, the despondence. This king was tall, and strong, proud and wise. This king had a purpose once more, and for all Aradan tried, with all his might, he could not avoid the radiant smile that blossomed on his face, nor the words that tumbled from his mouth.

"The Valar be praised, Thranduil. The Valar be praised."