Legolas dozed fitfully, for sleep would not come. He was too nervous, felt too vulnerable, and he was still stunned at the chance meeting with his father.

The extraordinary face floated before his mind's eye. The finely chiselled features, the strong brows and noble nose, the curved lips so like his own and the perfect, porcelain skin that shone with a brilliance few elves could boast. His hair was almost silver, lighter even than his own and the sum of it was was nothing short of breath-taking. This was the father he had rejected all his life, the one he had hated, and then had come to think of with cold indifference.

He was Sindarin, there could be no denying it, for features aside, it was his bearing, his expression. The deep blue eyes held long wisdom, the set of his jaw spoke of pride and authority and Legolas rather thought that in times of peace he would be lovely, and coveted, but in times of battle, he would be terrifying to behold.

It was not what he had been expecting - but then what had he expected? he asked himself. Had he even stopped to think about it?

He heaved an irritated sigh and sat up with a quiet groan, so as not to wake Melven who dozed beside him. It was the dead of night and his restlessness took him to the small window on the other side of the room.

The moon was full and cast a soft blue haze over the courtyard beyond and he suddenly wanted to be there, outside, feel her soft caress upon his skin, sooth his chaotic mind so that he could once more think straight, put some order to the mess of thoughts and emotions that would not cease to plead for his attention.

With one last look at Melven, he floated from the room, wrapping his cloak clumsily around himself and flipping the hood over his head.

Soon he was outside, perched upon a stone bench that sat in a quiet corner and although he was surrounded by stone, the view of the sky was unhindered and he tilted his head back. His skin felt the blue light, absorbed it; he seemed to flare in joy at its touch, and in spite of his conflicting emotions and the bone-deep anxiety that gnawed at his gut, he smiled softly.

TSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTS

Thranduil sat in his study, but today he did not sit at his paper-strewn desk where he would normally be found; he sat instead upon the window bank, one knee folded under his chin with his other leg left to anchor him to the stone floor below.

He looked so young, mused Aradan from the door, vulnerable even, an adjective he would never have thought to use with the king and yet it was the truth. There was a melancholic air about him this morning and the advisor knew he would not have slept, not with Handir so sorely injured.

"Good morning, my Lord," he said with a bow that went unnoticed and Aradan did not insist, rather he turned to the table and sat before it, waiting for Thranduil to acknowledge his presence.

Soon enough the king turned silently and rose, gliding over to the table and catching the advisor's eye.

"He is here," he said quietly.

"Handir, yes," said Aradan with a frown, wondering why the king would state such an obvious thing.

"Legolas, Legolas is here," rectified the king, watching as the news sunk in and Aradan's eyes widened in shock.

"What? Why didn't you tell me! My Lord I..."

"Peace, Aradan," came the king's voice. "It was a chance meeting in which his identity went - unaddressed."

There was a silence, in which Aradan desperately struggled to understand what had happened, what his friend was talking about.

"He was the warrior who brought Handir back. He visited his sick bed when he thought there was no one there," he explained, watching as Aradan's face remained as confused as before.

"He was cloaked and hooded, Aradan. I could not see him but I knew him all the same."

Aradan was silent, his face now blank.

"He knew who I was of course but he did not reveal himself, Aradan. He used a nickname, thinking I would not know of it, and I did not want to antagonise him, not there. It was neither the time nor the place for such meetings..." he trailed off and Aradan watched him closely, knowing he had not finished.

A maid momentarily interrupted them as she set a tray of tea upon the king's table, curtseyed and then left.

It took a while for the king to speak once more but when he did, Aradan startled, for it was so soft, so distant.

"His hands are strong and caring, his hair is the colour of the snow pumas of the Northern Evergreen wood, his voice deep and soft..."

There was a yearning in the king's voice that tugged at Aradan's heart, for that sadness he had noted no sooner he had arrived was still there, had not dissipated in spite of the arrival of his son.

"Are you not happy then, my Lord?" he asked rhetorically.

"Happy?" he asked, as if surprised at the question. "No, not happy, Aradan. How can I be when I cannot embrace my own son openly? How can I when I see him flinch at my presence. He did, you know. When he realised who it was who sat in the shadows he froze, like a hunted rabbit."

"I understand his anxiety, Thranduil. It does not mean he will reject you," said Aradan carefully as he poured their tea and set a cup before the king.

"What will you do?" he asked as he sat back and stirred his tea.

The piercing blue eyes settled on Aradan and the advisor could see the change in his features now. He had steeled himself, snapped his introspective mood and made a decision.

"I will seek him out. I do not wish to antagonise him, Aradan. I want him to see I will not push him into something he does not want, unless it will endanger him. I must try to make him see my intentions are good ones."

He paused here, turning for a moment and brushing down his hair in an uncharacteristic show of apprehension.

"I will visit Handir, and then I will find him and speak to him alone, before everything spirals out of control and any chance of gaining his confidence is lost."

"Your presence in the healing halls will not go unnoticed, Thranduil. You will have no privacy there," said Aradan.

"It will go unnoticed," he said resolutely. "Send for Galion, Aradan, and have Dorhinen ready to accompany me in thirty minutes."

"Thranduil, are you sure this is the best..."

"I am sure, Aradan. If I summon him here, I am his king and as such I must act. I wish to meet him first as a father."

Aradan looked into Thranduil's deep blue eyes, saw the determination, the desire to do things right with his son but he could not help but wonder if he was opening the door to his own heartbreak, that by offering the child this moment of equality, Legolas would turn on him. But he could not say that. He would be overstepping his boundaries as an advisor, and there was no mistaking Thranduil's confidence in that his tactic was the right one.

"I wish you luck, my friend," he said softly with a smile which was returned by the king, "enjoy the moment, if you can..." and then the advisor left, in search of Galion and Dorhinen, his critical mind wading through all the possible scenarios and all of them, without exception, were as complicated as they were unpredictable.

Truth be told it was not only about all that would begin this day, it was his own unbearable curiosity to meet the elf that had turned Greenwood inside out, that had the power, if he so wished, to return their land to what it had once been, and with it, restore her powerful monarch in all his Sindarin glory.

TSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTS

'Enjoy the moment, if you can...'

Yet in truth he felt sick to the stomach. He would see his face, watch him speak, move - he would see Lassiel again..." he abruptly turned to the window once more, composing himself for what he had to do now would require all his skill, all his control. He would dress simply, hide his features and get himself to the Healing Halls. He would end this unbearable misery, confront these fears, his uncertainty. If Legolas was to reject him then so be it, there were still political decisions to be made, decisions in which Legolas would participate, in spite of their personal relationship, or lack thereof. But if there was any chance, the slightest hope of a future together as family, Thranduil would seize it and nurture it, redeem himself if he could, not for love of Lassiel -that mistake he had already made. He would do it for Legolas.

Galion arrived then, together with the imposing figure of Dorhinen.

"Galion, Dorhinen. What I have to say now is of the utmost secrecy and must not be discussed outside this room, to anyone," he began, watching as the two elves nodded their understanding.

"Galion, find me some simple, civilian attire and a cloak that will sufficiently cover my identity. Dorhinen," he said, turning to the imposing Sindarin lieutenant, you have been briefed?" he asked expectantly.

"I have, my King. I am to guard your son Legolas until such time that any potential danger passes."

"Have you been told nothing else?" he asked, his eyes searching the blank features of the Sinda.

"I know he is called the Silvan, I know he is a Master Archer - that is the sum of it, my King."

"And how do you feel about this duty, Dorhinen?"

"I am honoured to carry out your bidding, my king."

Thranduil trusted this guard implicitly, for he had been his own father's body guard for many centuries, had been with him when he had fallen. Dorhinen had suffered terrible guilt for centuries more, chastising and berating himself for not having protected his beloved king. Indeed since then he had never taken up a similar post, preferring instead to serve in the southernmost patrols.

"I know you are loyal, Dorhinen, but I asked you how you feel," he emphasised, and then waited for the stern warrior to reply.

"I am, surprised, my King, surprised that you would trust me with the protection of your child."

"Then you should be pleasantly surprised, Dorhinen. I never blamed you for the fall of my father - I trust you implicitly, and - I need you to remember - that the danger may come from within. There may be factions amongst the Sindar, your own people, that would seek to harm him."

"That will not stay my hand, my King," said the blue-eyed Sinda with golden hair.

He was cold and reserved, an elf of few words and no outward emotions, but Thranduil had known the depths of his love for the first King of Greenwood, his desolation when he had fallen.

"Dorhinen. The child is here, in the Halls of Healing. We go there now, undercover. I need you to guard us while we speak."

Dorhinen turned his eyes to the king. "Why not here, my King? it is surely safer."

"I beg to differ, Dorhinen," was all the king said, before leaving to change, under the puzzled and curious gaze of the Sindarin guard.

TSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTS

Legolas awoke with a groan of pain for in his sleep he had turned onto his bad side.

"Here," said a deep voice from beside his bed. Melven.

"Have you slept at all?" asked Legolas tiredly as he sat up and accepted the mug of hot tea, his hand rubbing at the throbbing bruise on his face.

"No," was all Melven said and Legolas snorted at the Noldorin warrior. I should have named you Dimaethor, for you are as Silent as a tomb, my friend."

No sooner had he said it and his stomach flipped. Dimaethor could be dead, he remembered, the Avari's pale face coming back to him, bleeding upon the floor.

His dark thoughts were cut off by the arrival of Danir, the Silvan healer that had tended to him the night before.

With a smile and a nod, he walked over to the bed, his eyes assessing his patient as he approached.

"How is that shoulder?" he pointed, waiting for Legolas to deposit his tea on the side table.

"A little sore," he admitted, and Danir tutted as he rolled his eyes. "Warriors!" he exclaimed as he pulled back the loose shirt and inspected the bandages. "Drink your tea and then I will change these," he said with a practised voice of authority.

"How is Prince Handir, Danir?" asked Legolas, watching the healer carefully to discern the truth of his words.

"He awoke not minutes ago. Master Nestaron says he will recover."

Legolas visibly sagged, a rush of air leaving him somewhat palid. "Thank the Valar," he breathed.

"Have a care, Hwindohtar," warned Danir. "It is rumoured your escort is but a days' ride away. It seems our warriors have intercepted your group and are riding in with the wounded. These halls may be busy later this evening."

"Is there anywhere private? A room with a door?" he emphasised.

"No, only the Master Healer's office, but Nestaron is Sindarin, and I am unsure as to his reception of you, Hwindohtar."

"Then we will just have to stay here. If the group arrives this evening, then that is all I need," he said, and then added, "do they - do they mention any deaths?"

"No, only wounded, but this is the report of a warrior, not a healer. We must wait."

"Of course," said Legolas, as Dimaethor's face came to his mind's eye once more.

Before long, Legolas was dressed simply in his breeches and boots, and a shirt that marked him as a patient of the Healing Halls. His uniform had been stained and taken away for cleaning no doubt. Only his long hooded cloak remained and so, with a little help from Melven, he draped it over his shoulders.

His hair was still loose, but only because Legolas was incapable of doing anything about it with only one arm, and it was Melven who gestured to it now. Gathering the thick Avarin twists into a high tale at his crown and tying it off with the hair itself as he had seen Dimaethor do, he took a large portion at the temples and weaved thick archer's plaits on either side, finishing them with an intricate knot that denoted mastery. The rest was left to hang loose down to the small of his back.

Standing back, he nodded at his own handiwork and Legolas smiled at him.

"You are a bag of surprises, Glamohtar."

Melven started for a moment, and then seemed to remember that he had been baptised the night before as the Screaming Warrior and a smile threatened to spoil his well-worked mask of indifference.

The sound of a soldier's boots near their door had Legolas flipping his cloak over his head and pulling it forward so that it hid his features entirely.

Melven tensed and placed a hand upon the pommel of his sword, coming to stand at Legolas' shoulder.

They could hear Danir and Llyniel talking to someone, as if to distract them but their voices soon died to nothing, and the marching boots were back, until two elves stood in the doorway, Danir and Llyniel behind them, looking on in apologetic concern.

"We seek the warrior that escorted Prince Handir last night," said the cloaked figure, an imposing looking guard at his shoulder.

"I am he," said Legolas as he watched and waited, his heart sinking to his boots.

"Who are you?" asked Melven, his tone dangerously low and menacing, but Legolas placed a calming hand on his vambrace and the Noldo turned to look at him in puzzlement. Legolas simply shook his head and Melven searched his eyes, before nodding slowly.

"Come," was all the tall elf said, before turning on his heels and walking to the end of the corridor, past Nestaron, the master healer who looked on in curiosity as the four figures filed into his personal office and the door was closed firmly shut.

Danir and Llyniel watched on, alarmed when Nestaron finally caught their guilty eyes.

"What have you hidden from me?" he asked sarcastically.

TSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTST

Two hooded elves stood before one another. Behind one, was a Sindarin guard and behind the other, a Noldorin warrior. One, was earth and wind, and the other ice and fire, tempered by centuries of grief.

Thranduil could almost feel the anxiety emanating from his son and the rigid stance of the warrior at his back, absently wondering why a Noldo would be with him.

"You are Legolas," he said simply, it was not a question.

"Yes," he answered, a lingering tone of defeat in his voice.

"I," said the other, as he reached for the hood of his cloak and pulled it back, "am Thranduil," he said slowly, purposefully omitting his title.

The cloaked figure stood stock still, frozen it seemed, until he finally spoke. "How? How did you recognise me?" he asked.

"I recognised your soul, Legolas. It was your presence, not your face, that gave you away," he said kindly. "And then there is that name; I do not know many elves called the Whirling Warrior," he said ironically, a soft smile on his face.

There was a prolonged silence, one born of utter confusion no doubt, realised the king, and so he softly continued.

"Will you lower your hood, Legolas? Allow me to look upon you?" he prompted, his heart thumping painfully in his chest. He had been told of the resemblance to Oropher, his green eyes and had seen the tip of a braid last night, but everything else remained a mystery to Thranduil. He could feel his muscles shake, his eyes as they moved too quickly over the shrouded form and his breath that came too frequently.

He felt the familiar warm feeling in his soul, the one that had told him just yesterday, beyond the slightest shadow of a doubt, that he stood before his son, for there was a part of the king that recognised the essence of his soul mate, that part of Lassiel that resided in this elf, in the son they had created together so that she may live, if only so that she could deliver herself to the undying lands and await the years of separation before they could finally be together.

The wait became almost unbearable and Thranduil knew that his own state of agitation would become apparent if Legolas did not soon comply.

He did, and with one hand, he flipped the hood away from his bowed head, and then slowly lifted his face and looked upon his father.

Thranduil's heart stopped and his eyes bulged, blood rushing to his face and ears as hot tears filled his eyes. His mind was paralysed and a gasp wrangled its way past his vocal chords. He covered his treacherous mouth with a jewelled hand and turned abruptly away.

Closing his eyes he breathed hard, his harsh breaths the only sound in the room. Legolas stared at his father's back and Dorhinen, in turn, stared at Legolas with wide, disbelieving eyes.

The agonisingly uncomfortable silence stretched on until Thranduil whirled around once more. His stunned features were slowly returning to at least a semblance of normalcy, but they were still clearly pulled tight in disbelief.

"How is this possible..." he whispered as his feet slowly brought him closer to the Silvan, the great king's head tilted to one side in confusion. "I was told there was a resemblance but I had never imagined.... this!" he trailed off as one hand reached up and then softly touched his son's chest.

The contact was fleeting, as if he had simply wanted to ensure it was flesh and blood that stood before him, not the ghost of his dead father.

Legolas remained silent, staring back at the floundering king.

"I have - no words," he breathed again, his eyes roving desperately over his son's body, his face, his hands and then his bright green eyes.

"Lassiel..." he whispered reverently, and then suddenly, forcefully jolted himself out of his strange trance for he knew the emotion would overwhelm him if he did not stop it now, while he still could. There would be time enough later, when he was alone and free to feel.

With a deep breath, he stepped back and Legolas seemed to visibly sag as the distance between them was increased.

"You were wounded, are you alright?" he asked, his voice now steadier than it had been, no longer a soft whisper, almost as if he had become another person.

"I am well enough, my King," answered Legolas obediently as Thranduil continued to watch him closely. One arm was held against his chest and he still wore the clothing of the Healing Halls. His face was bruised on one side and there was a tiredness in his eyes that spoke of exhaustion.

"Dorhinen, and you," gestured Thranduil to the Noldo behind his son.

"Melven Hadorion," he said curtly, unaware of the flinch that had visibly moved the Sindarin warrior behind the king.

"Leave us," he commanded, waiting as the two guards left, each with a lingering stare for Legolas, who stood now as one condemned before the hangman.

With a soft click, the door closed and they were alone.

Silence was their only companion for a while, before the king's soft voice shattered it.

"Legolas," began the king slowly, "I came here to meet you on your terms, not mine. It is not my intention to intimidate or antagonise you. I wish only for us to talk, before duty takes its course and we are no longer able to speak freely. Here, I am an elf, not a king."

But his words were met with stiff silence.

"Child," frowned Thranduil, stepping forward. "Say what you will - but say something..."

The impertinent silence was back and Thranduil wished he could strike it down. Before long though, Legolas did speak, so quietly, as if he spoke to himself.

"I do not know what to say," came the soft reply.

It was Thranduil's turn then, to remain silent, until, with a heavy sigh, he turned and raked a hand through his hair.

"I want you to know," he began, using a different tactic now, in the hopes that he would at least, get the elf to speak to him. "I have publicly recognised you as my son to the court of the Greenwood, and ruled that you are to be addressed as Lord Legolas, but this you already know," he said, turning to look at his son, his face open and expectant and still, no reaction.

"I want you to be on equal terms with my other children, I would like you - to be a part of this family - if you so wish it," he said carefully now, his eyes riveted on the bright green eyes that stared back at him, eyes he had once loved, still did, always would.

"Have you nothing at all to say?" asked Thranduil, softly, pleadingly almost.

"I do not know what to say - and I do not know what to feel..." and with that last word, Thranduil at last heard emotion. 'Feel...'

"Tell me then, what you wish to feel, even if you do not," he prompted, thinking perhaps he had finally found a way to evoke the child's emotional state. He had not been wrong.

"What I wish..." he said almost absently, his eyes dropping to the side and Thranduil knew he remembered, was wading through his memories of long ago.

"What I wished, when I was a child, was to have a father; dead or alive but a father of which I could speak, one I could put a face and a name to, and a place either in Valinor or Mandos' Halls," he muttered, a soft smile on his face, an expression of wistful childish dreams, and it brought hot tears to Thranduil's eyes, tears he held back as he so often had.

His son's voice was far, far away, and the words dripped now with sadness and suffering, and Thranduil's heart constricted painfully as he forced himself to listen.

"I wished, that I could name my father in pride for I was sure he was dead - why else would I be alone? I would reason. But as time passed and my mind matured I came to realise there was some dark, family secret, one no one would speak of and I was sure, sure," he emphasised, that my father had died in shame, exiled perhaps," he trailed off, and then turned so abruptly the king startled, for his child's green eyes were unnerving him, the brightness of his aura and the frown now firmly in place on his inexplicably beautiful face - the sad child had gone and in his place was a bitter adolescent.

"And I hated myself then," he hissed, "for not deserving a family, for not being wanted, for being forgotten and being different - the half-breed bastard of an exile!" he shouted vehemently, his eyes but hinting at the pent up fury behind them.

Legolas checked himself and closed his eyes, slowly bringing his accelerated breathing under control.

"Don't stop, Legolas..." pleaded the king urgently, you need to tell me this, for yourself..."

"Need?" he asked. "I speak of the past," he said, and then laughed, but there was no humour in it. "I do not even know what to call you, damn it!" he said.

"Thranduil, just call me Thranduil..." he said softly.

"Thranduil - what I needed, I never had, and that cannot be changed, even though I wish it could," he said meaningfully, his face now but inches from Thranduil's, the strange green eyes focussing sharply on his own blue irises. This was no longer the face of a sad child, nor that of a bitter adolescent...

"You are so sure of that? That things do not change?" he urged. "I understand your words, and respect them and I will not contest them. I know I cannot change the past, but I can change the future, Legolas, and so can you. It is but a question of desiring it."

Legolas held his gaze and Thranduil was sure the boy was listening, was reasoning his words. Aye he was young but he was not unwise, realised the king.

"Mere months ago I would have said you are wrong, but after all that has happened - I can no longer assume to guess at the future," said Legolas somewhat absently and something in his tone gave Thranduil food for thought - what had happened in Imladris that his son had seen fit to mention it for a second time...

"Perhaps," said the king as he turned towards the window, "perhaps you would consider working for the good of the Greenwood, as the Lord that you are. Perhaps, through this, shared objective, we may come closer than what mere duty would dictate. And," he added, "perhaps that will never happen. But know this, Legolas; you will find my heart open to you," he said, struggling now to keep his own emotions in check. "You ask what you should call me, but I have no such doubt, Legolas, I call you my son because that is what you are, and you cannot change that, even if you wished to," he said, a note of defensiveness had crept into his tone, a bitterness born of frustration that he had not been able to hold back.

Legolas seemed to have sensed it, for his face softened with his next words. "I do not wish to," he whispered, the beautiful, moss green eyes full with unshed tears, "but I cannot overcome centuries of absence simply because I wish it, Thranduil, and yet I do - wish it."

The king's eyes were wide in nascent understanding. His son wanted what he himself did but he could not feel it. It was a minute, flickering light on a stormy horizon, and he was suddenly filled with tempered hope.

"It may confuse you Legolas, to know that I am proud of who you have become. Perhaps one day, that will matter to you. I am not leaving, I will always be here."

"I can give you no more than this, Thranduil. I do not hate you, not any more. I have learned to control my anger and bitterness for the most part, but having achieved this, does not make the opposite true. I cannot love you simply because you are my father..."

"I know," he said with a smile. "I accept that and I will not push you beyond your limits. In public, we are king and lord, and in private, time will tell. 'Tis enough that I have hope."

He stared at his son once more and cocked his head to one side. "Tis truly unnerving - how much you resemble your grandfather.... I understand your reticence to uncloak yourself."

"I saw a portrait of him, in Imladris. It was the first time I had seen him."

Thranduil frowned. "Do they not have libraries in Lland Galadh?" he asked somewhat ironically.

"Aye we do. But you see, it seems my identity is not a surprise to many. Those books must have been confiscated - I have spent my entire life surrounded by intrigues, Thranduil. Even those of my own village so you see - trust - is a difficult concept for me to grasp. The only people I truly trust, those I know without doubt will stand beside me, are those of The Company, and Glorfindel."

"Legolas," he said, his tone changing a little for it was no longer so deep and wishful. "We must speak of many things, of recent events here in the Greenwood and the role others would have you play and I must now ask you," he said, watching his son carefully for his reaction. "Are you willing to take up your place as a lord of this realm? Will you serve our people?"

Legolas stared into his father's piercing blue eyes and when he answered, his voice was strong and resolute. "I have only ever wished for that - I will serve our people, and I am loyal to my King. But there are things I must also discuss with you, for while I am aware there has been an important summit here, so too, have there been events in Imladris, of which you must be briefed."

Thranduil nodded curtly. "I am glad then, that we have had this conversation, Legolas. Remember my words though. Do not think me unapproachable - come to me if you need answers, if you have questions and if you do not, then at least we are both joined in the pledge of our service to this land.

"So be it," murmured Legolas.

"Legolas. The next time we speak will be formally, at the fortress. I will be King and you will be Lord and I will know your loyalty. Know, though, that there are those that will oppose your presence..."

"You speak of Rinion? my brother?"

"Him, and others. Your great uncle Bandorion and his son, your second cousin. Have a care, Legolas, and to this end I have assigned Dorhinen for your safety, at least until the danger has passed."

"I had imagined as much," said Legolas. "Handir and I have spoken extensively of the political situation here, I am not unlearned in the dynamics at large."

"Then I am truly glad," smiled Thranduil sincerely, "glad that at least you have gained a brother in all this - this mess," he said and Legolas actually smiled then. It transformed his face and Thranduil was mesmerised once more at his loveliness.

"It is a mess, is it not?" said Legolas rhetorically. "And yes. Handir has become dear to me. He and I are brothers in the true sense of the word," he smiled. "I am grateful for that."

A long silence stretched between them then, until the king finally broke it, turning to face his son, his expression no longer guarded but graced with an openness that spoke of his wish to truly show himself for what he was. A father who wanted nothing more than to redeem himself with a son he had never known, but that wanted to, with all that he was.

"My heart is heavy for the pain you have suffered, and because I can do nothing to remedy that. It saddens me that we cannot embrace as father and son, that you cannot call me father and yet," he hesitated as a smile began to stretch his lips, "I am strangely heartened that you do not reject me, that you do not turn from our people and the responsibility inherent in the son of a king."

Legolas held his father's gaze as he considered the words he had spoken and then nodded slowly. "And I am glad that you understand, that you do not force me into thinking or feeling what you would wish. I am glad you count on me and that you know of my loyalty to you as king. I cannot guarantee there will be no bitterness, and I cannot guarantee that I will ever feel anything more towards you than the love of a Lord for his king - can you accept this?"

"I am content with that, Legolas. But I will always hope for more..."

Legolas smiled again, not a smile of joy but one of understanding, of good will.

"I confess," said Legolas, a little worriedly, "that I am at a loss as to what to do now, how to act, where to go even..." he said with a deep frown.

"Let Dorhinen guide you, Legolas. He will take you to your rooms, show you the fortress, accompany you to meals..."

Legolas closed his eyes as he listened and Thranduil could clearly see the anxiety in his eyes. He would be put on display now, and there was nothing Thranduil could do to change that.

"I know what you are thinking and I will not say it will not be hard, for it will. There are issues such as meeting Rinion, the councillors, and not all will be kind to you. It is just like any other battle you have fought, Legolas, save this one rages between these walls. You have Melven with you, and Handir when he recovers sufficiently."

"And I have The Company," he said. "They will arrive later today."

"The Company?"

"They, are the people I most trust, Thranduil, and although Dorhinen is assigned to me, I will not be parted from my brothers. Dimaethor you know - although not by that name but as Lainion - he was sorely wounded protecting Handir in battle - if not for him my brother would be dead. I must be there to receive them, Thranduil."

"Alright. You will have my leave, Legolas. Is there anything else I need to know?" he asked in curiosity now.

"Yes, one more thing."

"What is it?"

"There are dignitaries in our escort; Elladan Elrondion and Mithrandir ride with the Company, and leading our warriors, is Lord Glorfindel..." he finished, watching his father for a reaction.

"Glorfindel," he repeated. "Elbereth..."

"I know of his friendship with King Oropher," said Legolas carefully.

"Friendship? Nay - they were brothers, Legolas. Inseparable, of like mind. Two mighty whirlwinds of strength and power. That was a legendary friendship," he smiled in remembrance.

"Then I must tell you, that Glorfindel has become dear to me, and I to him," he said softly with a smile.

Thranduil watched his son carefully. There was a hint of worry there, quickly hidden by millennia of experience. Glorfindel had been a constant in Thranduil's younger years, when the reborn warrior had leave to visit, which was admittedly rare. He had fond memories of those times, before he had met Lassiel and everything had changed.

"I will not ask you to dine with us this day for I know you will not, and of course you have not yet met Rinion. Tomorrow, perhaps," he said, and then added, "remember then. Come to me with your worries, either as my son or as a servant of this realm, and look to Dorhinen for guidance."

"Of course," said Legolas, moving to replace his hood.

"Leave it. There is no point."

Legolas' hand froze, and then he nodded and drew a deep breath. He was anxious and Thranduil could not blame him for that. The boy was stunning to look upon and that in itself would garner him much unwanted attention. It also marked him unmistakably as a scion of the House of Oropher and that meant he was the king's bastard child, for some a blessing and for others, a shameful mockery that would bring insult, and perhaps more. No, Thranduil could not blame him for his apprehension, but it was a necessary step if anything was to be achieved.

"I will call for you later, Legolas. Come if you so wish it," said the king with one last, long gaze upon his Silvan child. Pulling his own hood up, he turned in spite of his desperate wish to stay, and left the room, only to come face to face with Dorhinen and Melven, and behind them, the entire group of healers, with Nestaron at the fore.

"My king," he said respectfully with a bow. "Prince Handir has asked for you," he informed with a satisfied smile.

"How did you know?" asked Thranduil quietly, his frustration clear.

"You forgot your ring, my Lord."

Looking down, Thranduil's eyes registered the fact that he had not taken it off. It was no ordinary golden band of office but an emerald as large as a quail's egg, beautiful, save there was one peculiarity. It was roughly-carved, jagged, wild, and so very very bright, just like the elf that had gifted it to him.