The Third Age

1421

Despite Thranduil’s arrival to the white city of Minas Tirith, no miraculous change came to the youngest prince of Mirkwood. Legolas remained lost in his dreamless sleep, unaware of the passage of time as it continued to slip around him like the flow of water over a rock. Days turned into weeks and weeks turned to months, with nothing to separate them from the last but the occasional visit of one of Legolas’ friends to his bedside.

Golden leaves of fall soon fell away in announcement of the coming snows of winter. The days slowly began to shorten. And as the temperatures continued to fall more and more with each passing day, so did hopes for the unconscious elf’s recovery. During that time, an official mandate was made by Aragorn ordering that the collapsed mountain pass of Emyn Arnen was to remain forever blocked and never cleared or reopened for any traffic or travel.

Thranduil continued to stay with his son, always whispering encouragements and pleas to the young elf to wake and return to him. But for all of Thranduil’s efforts, his words fell on deaf ears as Legolas continued to sleep on, unaware of his father’s growing despair.

In early December of that year Gimli, son of Gloin, announced that he was preparing to return to his home in the Glittering Caves of neighboring Rohan within the week. Though he yearned to stay at his unconscious friend’s side longer and wait for a miracle, he knew he could no longer delay his departure. He had already spent more time in Minas Tirith than he had originally planned because of Legolas’ accident and was now desperately needed back in the Glittering Caves. Life continued to move on regardless of personal tragedy and grief, work always existed that needed to be done. And so, early one morning before the sun had even risen over the distant rim of the horizon and Thranduil still rested in his appointed guestroom in the Hall of Kings, the dwarf slipped unnoticed into the infirmary room of his comatose friend for a final visit. He stayed only for a time, silently holding the elf’s lifeless hand in his own before then finally getting up to leave the white city of Gondor with nothing left behind to mark his departure except a lingering note of sadness in the air.

Winter came and snow fell over the city like a blanket of powderized diamonds. Icy wind rattled loudly at the windows of Legolas’ small room in the House of Healing, but still he would not wake. Hope continued to ever wan and Aragorn began to go less and less often to visit his friend.

New Years came that year with little reason for celebration. Some of those to journey to the mighty city of Minas Tirith for the holiday season were Gimli and Éomer, Lord of the Mark. But although the many close friends were gathered together in the grand halls of the Hall of Kings to enjoy the festive season, a certain pall seemed to hang over their merrymaking – the memory of their missing elven companion always a lingering presence in the back of their minds.

Two weeks after celebrations had ushered in a new age with the year 1422, rule of the elven colony of Ithilien was officially passed on to Legolas’ second in command – an older elf named Thalion who had once served as a field commander for Thranduil in Mirkwood’s army for several centuries before ultimately following the king’s youngest son to the wilds of Ithilien to help establish the small elven community. It was a solemn day that day. For in passing command of Legolas’ position to another, it felt as if they were somehow betraying Legolas and declaring him dead, as if he was never expected to return. But the colony and its elves were leaderless and could no longer wait for their Lord to wake and return to them.

The days continued to shortened even more until sunlight seemed like only a distant memory of warm summer days long past. And in the lengthening darkness, the elven prince slept on.

Thranduil continued to faithfully sit by his son’s bedside for several hours a day, watching as servants and nurses came everyday to bathe the unconscious elf and change the soiled sheets and linens of the bed. And as he continued to sit there day after day, watching his son be changed and cared for like a tiny baby and have liquid food poured down his throat to provide nourishment to his slowly thinning body, he began to find himself at times almost wishing Legolas had just perished in the landslide that had put him in such a wretched state of helplessness.

The first time he caught himself thinking such horrid thoughts, the elven king had physically felt sick to his stomach. He actually caught himself wishing his son had died! How could anyone possible wish for such a thing?! But then again, was not this hopeless state of being Legolas had fallen into almost a fate worst than death?

It was then that Thranduil began to wonder how much longer he could bear to sit there and watch his son slowly wither away before his eyes. How much longer could he sit there and wait for Legolas to wake? But the most ominous question of them all: did he still believe his son would ever return to him?

******

The Fourth Age

March 27, 1422

"I will send word to you immediately if there is any change," Elrond said as he clasped Thranduil’s arm at the elbow as a sign of parting. Behind the two elf-lords in the wide courtyard of the House of Healing stood Thranduil’s escort of mounted guards, all dressed in Mirkwood colors and patiently waiting for their king to depart.

"Thank you," the elven king answered, returning the gesture solemnly, "I would stay longer, but I have been away from Mirkwood for too long. I left my oldest son to rule in my stead, but I fear what issues might have arisen in the time I have been gone. I will try and return as soon as I can."

Elrond nodded. "I understand. Legolas will be well tended to in the meantime. The daily massages seem to be keeping his muscles limber for the time being. I will see to it personally that it is continued and that his body is stretched out daily to try and prevent muscle deterioration."

Thranduil looked at Elrond with an expression of surprise. "Will you not be returning to Rivendell soon? You have been away from your own kingdom far longer than I have. Are you not needed there?"

"No," the dark-haired elf answered with a distant look of sorrow on his ageless face. "Many elves are leaving these shores and sailing to the Undying Lands. Imladris is a dying nation. More and more of my people leave every day. I am sure you have heard that the Lady Galadriel diminished into the West sometime late last September."

"Yes. I heard that Mithrandir was also said to have left with her," Thranduil said.

"The two Hobbits, Frodo and Bilbo Baggins, also went," Elrond said. A soft expression of whimsical longing then seemed to enter the elf lord’s ancient grey eyes – eyes that had seen too much death, destruction and sorrow throughout the many long years of his immortal life. "Do you know the Lady Galadriel asked me to accompany her and the others in their final voyage across the sea?" he then asked in a soft, almost pained voice.

Thranduil stood silent, captivated by this bit of news. He had honestly heard little of the Lady and Gandalf’s plans to depart from Middle-earth until many months after the fact. And he had been even less aware that Lord Elrond had actually been asked to accompany them. "Why did you not go with them?" he asked curiously.

Elrond seemed to revert into himself for a moment and stare out into the distance. Then with a long, weary sigh he said, "I seriously considered it. My wife Celebrian sailed to the Undying Lands almost five hundred years ago. But although I desperately long to be reunited with her, my children still live here. I cannot leave here just yet. Though we are divided, my family is here in Middle-earth. I wish to see my first grandchild born, and watch Aragorn and Arwen bring peace and prosperity back to this land. And I need to know that there is still hope for the race of Men after our kind leave these shores."

Thranduil stood for a moment of silence, quietly studying the other elf. As he stared into Elrond’s ageless face, he suddenly began to feel a deep connection of understanding form between himself and the Lord of Imladris. They had both lost so much in this world. They had both lost their wives and a child – whether it had been to love and its consequence of inevitable mortality, or to tragedy and a cruel death-like sleep. They were more similar than either had ever before realized, and with that Thranduil suddenly felt as if an invisible bond had formed between them. Although he and Elrond had never really been considered friends or even close allies, he now felt as if he had someone who could understand his pain. How strange (and morbidly ironic) it was that it had taken a tragedy such as Legolas’ accident for the two elf-lords to finally set aside their differences and see eye to eye.

With a timid smile, Thranduil again clasped Elrond’s arm at the elbow. "Nemarie."

"Nemarie."

With that, Thranduil then turned and walked out into the pale, cold morning sunlight that was weakly shining down into the open courtyard through the slatey grey clouds of the overcast March sky above. Mounting his horse, the elven king signaled to his men to depart. As the line of elves slowly began to file out the gate into the snow-dusted streets of Minas Tirith beyond, Thranduil paused and looked back over his shoulder towards the House of Healing and its tall stone walls.

Somewhere in that building lay his youngest son. For a moment, Thranduil could not bring himself to leave. What if Legolas was waking up right now? What if he was slowly stirring and struggling to find his way back to the light and needed his father to help guide him back?

But Thranduil knew Legolas was not. No matter how hard he wished for it to be different, he knew his son still lay lost in his coma, trapped in an empty void of dark nothingness. And so with a laden heart, the elven king turned his mount and exited the House of Healing’s gate.

Legolas had now lain in his coma for eight long months.

******

Spring came to the lands of Gondor. With the melting of the cold winter snows came the sprouting buds of new growth and life. To the winter wearied eyes of the people of Gondor, the return of green and the multiple hues of blossoming flowers were like a welcome balm to the senses after so many months of cold, barren nothingness and snow. And as the trees began to blossom and sing their songs of regrowth, the elven prince slept on.

Towards the end of April, the dwarf, Gimli, again returned to the city of Minas Tirith. He did not stay long – only two weeks or so – before departing once again for the Glittering Caves of Aglarond. He spent only a little of that time inside of the House of Healing, sitting by Legolas’ bedside who still refused to acknowledge the dwarf’s or anyone else’s presence.

Spring slowly melted into summer and still no change came to the blond archer. It was in early July that a problem arose in the House of Healing concerning a lack of space in the congested building. As the only large-scale establishment for medical treatment in the entire city of Minas Tirith, the House of Healing was often unable to room the numerous patients it saw on a daily basis, and had to send many of its less severe cases away to recover in their own homes after initial treatment. When news of this problem finally reached the ears of king Elessar, Aragorn immediately gave orders that Legolas was to be moved to his old guestroom in the Hall of Kings where he could still be tended to by the palace’s own staff, and at the same time free up one of the House of Healing’s rooms now that there was really nothing else the healers there could do for the comatose elf.

September saw the return of the elven king of Mirkwood to the borders of Gondor, whose journey there to his son’s side would soon become a yearly ritual to him for the next four years of Legolas’ coma. Thranduil stayed for less than a month, unable to bear the sight of his youngest child lost in his unnatural state of sleep and left before the deepening of fall.

1422 passed and still no change came to the elven prince.

In June of the following year it was announced that Eowyn was with child and that she and her husband, Faramir, were expecting the birth of their first child sometime that coming winter.

Thranduil again visited that September and again left after only a short time in the white city. By now almost all hope had been lost of him ever seeing his son awake again.

******

December 4, 1423

It was the dead of night. The moon hung high in the obsidian sky overhead. Icy winds whipped through the empty streets of the lower west end of Minas Tirith between the third and fourth gates of the city. Snow that dusted the ground from a snowstorm that had hit the city earlier that day became kicked up from the ground by the driving winds and swirled madly around in the air in mini cyclones.

Walking alone down the deserted street with her head bent down to the biting wind, was a young woman. She walked hunched forward, hugging a heavy winter cloak around her slender frame as she desperately tried to keep the bitter cold from invading her already frozen body. Dirty blond hair whipped in the air behind her as she continued to trudge headlong into the driving winter wind.

Her name was Elien, a pretty, but by no means beautiful, girl whose slightly homely looks actually gave her a certain type of appeal to some of those that looked upon her with such eyes. She worked as a bar maid in one of the local taverns in that section of the city, serving pints of ale to men as they came in from their daily labors to enjoy a bit of warmth and drink before heading home for the night. It was not a glamorous job, but it put food on the table and there were far worst jobs in which she could be employed.

Normally, she would have worked serving drinks and clearing tables until the very early hours of the morning when most of the tavern’s patrons had by that time either gone back home to their beds to sleep off their drunken stupors of the night, or had been thrown out into the street by the tavern’s owner. But tonight there had been little business. The bitter cold had kept away most of the bar’s usual clientele. Because of the lack of business, the tavern’s owner had sent Elien home early.

So here she was, slowly trudging home through the same cold and ice that had driven away her customers. Her shoulders shook with barely controlled shivers. She pulled the tattered winter clock closer around herself, but it did little to dispel the icy chill of the night that seemed to blow right through her.

Too preoccupied with thoughts of a nice roaring fire waiting for her back in the small, rented room she shared with an old widowed woman who was old enough to be her grandmother, Elien did not hear the sound of heavy footsteps on cobblestones somewhere down the street behind her. She continued on unawares for another block or so before a sudden gale of icy wind suddenly blasted her in the face and sent her hair flying into her eyes. Momentarily blinded, Elien struggled to push her thick mane of hair out of her face, and in the process accidently dropped a small parcel of goods she had bought earlier that evening before going to work on the ground. Several things slipped out a tear that had formed in the bottom corner of the package and scattered across the snowy ground. Crying out in dismay and helpless frustration, the young girl dropped to her knees to collect her fallen things.

As she hurried to jam the things back in the now torn bag before they were ruined by the dirty snow and ice of the street, the crunch of heavy footsteps behind her began to quicken before then suddenly stopping almost right over her crouched form.

"Are you alright, miss?"

Elien startled and whipped around in surprise. There standing almost right beside her was a man.

He stood a slight distance away from where she knelt in the snow as if timid of encroaching on her personal space.

It took her a moment to regain her bearings from the surprise of the man’s sudden appearance. "Yes. Thank you. I’m fine," she said, "I just managed to drop my things, that’s all."

"Oh, here, let me help you with those," he said as he knelt beside her and began to collect her scattered goods.

"Oh, thank you, but you don’t have to do that," Elien stuttered, slightly taken aback by the man’s gentlemanly actions. Never before had anyone ever went to her aid quite like this before. Most of the men she usually found herself surrounded by were low-life drunks or some other unsavory type like that. But this one seemed genuinely different and somehow... noble in his bearings.

"It’s no problem," he assured with a small smile as he handed her things back to her and helped her put them back inside her bag. "It’s my pleasure. Do you live around here?" he then asked, quite innocently.

"Just around the way," the girl answered with a motioning gesture down the street before even realizing what she had done, so mesmerized by the man’s charm she was.

"Then please let me assist you in carrying your things back for you." And before Elien could protest, the man stood and began walking in the direction Elien had indicated her house stood, her package protectively tucked under his arm.

Hurrying to catch up, the young woman stuttered, "Oh good sir, you really do not need to trouble yourself like this. I can make it home by myself."

"I am sure you can, but it is dangerous for a woman as beautiful as yourself to be walking the streets alone this late at night," he said, his tone debonair and sincere.

Elien blushed furiously at his comment, and subconsciously ran a hand through her wind swept hair. No one had ever called her beautiful before, let alone a man as gentlemanly and good-looking as this one that had insisted on helping carry her things back home for her.

The two walked down the snowy street for several moments of silence before the man spoke again. "Tell me, did you get off work early tonight?" he asked, "I have seen you walking back to your house before, but usually much later at night."

Elien paused a moment, slightly taken aback by his question. How did he know she had just come from work? "Yes. There was very little business tonight because of the cold. I work at –"

"The local tavern beside the bakery near the third gate – the Golden Goblet, I believe it is called," the man cut off abruptly and finished.

"Yes..." Elien replied, starting to become slightly uncomfortable with this unknown man.

"I also have seen you buying your groceries at the market stalls near there. I first saw you there some weeks ago – on a Saturday I believe it was, the day before that first big snowfall. The moment I saw you I was quite taken by you... When I found out where you worked, I could not help but stop there at least once a day in the evenings when you were working. Do you know you look very beautiful in candle light when you are hurrying about filling orders?" he asked innocently, his tone as calm and debonair as it had been when he had first dropped to his knees to help Elien collect her fallen goods.

By now, the young girl was quite frightened. Was this man following her? Had he been watching her as she went about her daily business and work? Trying to act calm, Elien quickly tried to think of a way to get away from this strange man. "Oh, good sir, my house is within a block of here now. I think I can make it the rest of the way. You do not need to trouble yourself at my expense any longer," she said hurriedly, trying to sound sincere and convincing as she held out her hands for the package the man still held securely under his arm.

"There is no trouble," he countered, brushing off her unspoken request for her package, "I assure you..."

Now becoming quite panicked, Elien abruptly stopped, causing the man to also halt beside her.

"Sir, I would really just like my package," she said in a slightly wavering voice of false courage. "I do not need your help anymore. I can make it the rest of the way home by myself," she added in her sternest voice. She then held up her hand, expecting the man to obediently hand her things back to her.

But the man did not. For several long moments of tense, uncomfortable silence, he just stood there, staring back at the girl. Elien imagined she saw something of surprise and perhaps hurt hiding behind the man’s expression, and for a moment almost felt sorry for being so mean and callous to this good-hearted Samaritan that had stopped to help her – no matter his suspicious knowledge of her daily activities and life.

But before she could feel regretful for what she had done, the "good-hearted Samaritan’s" face suddenly grew hard and wrathful, his once handsome features transforming into something ugly and frightening. "What is the matter? Am I not good enough to carry your things?" he spat, throwing her package violently to the ground, breaking the bag open and scattering its contents across the snowy ground. Elien jumped back in fear and surprise. "Was I not kind to offer you my services and walk you home?" he snarled as he began to advance on the frightened young woman, his eyes and posture screaming violence. "Was I not noble to see that you were safely seen back to your home? Wasn’t I?!"

Elien had begun to slowly back away from the enraged man. Her eyes frantically darted around, desperately seeking some form of help. But the street was deserted. No other sign of life existed in the shadowy street except for herself and the approaching man.

"Please... I am sorry... I did not mean..." she stuttered, frightenedly.

"Shut up!" the man roared, still advancing towards the terrified girl like a predator stalking its prey. Elien winced in fear. She hurriedly-back peddled away from the man, trying to escape his approach. Her back suddenly collided with the solid brick wall of one of the buildings lining the deserted street. She stood there, helplessly pinned between the wall and her advancing attacker.

Seeing this as his moment to attack, the man lunged at the girl. Elien cried out in terror and tried to dodge around him. The man had already anticipated such a desperate escape and quickly caught the fleeing girl around the waist with his arm. Elien screamed out, crying for help. "Help! Please! Anyone, help!" she cried out loudly as she struggled against her attacker’s hold. Her terrified screams bounced off the surrounding buildings and down the empty street before fading into the distance. But there was no one there to hear her cries.

"Be quiet!" the man snarled as he began to drag the kicking, fighting girl down into a small dark alley off to the side where the girl had decided to stop and demand her package back from the man.

"Help! Please! Anyone! Help!"

"I said shut up!"

The two were quickly swallowed by the dark shadows of the alley and disappeared from sight. From out of the darkness drifted the muffled sounds of grunts and struggling. Then, shattering the still calmness of the wintery night came the strangled, blood-curdling scream of a young woman. As it faded from the air, the deep silence of the night slowly resettling over the sleeping city like a heavy blanket. Several snowflakes slowly drifted down from the sky into the now still and silent street, as if frozen tears from heaven.

The girl’s body was found sometime the next morning by a passing citizen on his way to work, laying cold and dead under a thin sheet of newly fallen snow near the entrance of a small, decrepit alley. She was found brutally strangled and raped, her clothes half torn from her frozen body that had been shamelessly left behind by her murderer like a piece of trash sprawled out over the ground. But her desecration had not ended there. Her face had also been brutally maimed, so much so that the body could not be identified until many days later when a widowed old woman came to report to the authorities the disappearance of a young girl she rented a room with not more than two blocks away from where the grisly murder had taken place.

The authorities immediately took actions to find the culprit of such a heinous crime, but had no clues on which to launch an investigation and had to abandon the case. The murder sent something of a stir through the city, but was quickly forgotten within the week. The authorities marked it as an unsolved case, hoping that it was would be the one and only of such atrocious murders in the city of Minas Tirith. But Elien was not to be the last and only death of her murderer’s savage killing spree. Nor would it be until many years later that Elien’s murderer was finally brought to justice.

******

Winter deepened and in the dark, early morning hours of February 3^rd, 1424, while Legolas still slept locked in his dreamless black oblivion, Eowyn gave birth to a healthy baby boy. The child was named Theomir in honor of both his mother and father’s lines, and was instantly proclaimed a beautiful meld of both his parents.

Time continued on and life fell back into its daily rhythm.

Gimli now rarely came to the city of Minas Tirith any more, and when he did it was only on official business by request of King Elessar. In the past, when Legolas had still been there to offer the dwarf a good round of verbal sparring, Gimli had been known to stay in the white city for several months at a time until the time came when either he or his elven companion had to be called back to their respective homes. But no longer. Those days were in the past and he could no longer find any real reason to return to the city except to offer his skills in the rebuilding of Minas Tirith that was still going on even several years after the War of the Ring. He still had many friends like Aragorn there in the white city, yes, but Aragorn was often too busy seeing to his country’s affairs to really just go off and have a good time like Gimli and Legolas had been known to do. And as Gimli had soon come to realize, no one else could quite fill that now empty spot in his life like the lighthearted elf once had.

Aragorn now rarely went to see Legolas. There were always concerns of state to preoccupy him and not enough hope to compel him to go to his unconscious friend anymore. Legolas had become nothing more than a living, painful memory to him. The Lady Arwen, however, was known to still go once a week and sit by the comatose elf’s side. During her stays she would often softly talk to him about the latest news and going-ons of their friends, of the antics and rapid growth of Eowyn and Faramir’s new baby, and whatever other inconsequential things happened to cross her mind that day. She always whispered to Legolas of everyone’s continued hopes for his recovery, but in truth there was no more hope.

Later that April, the body of another young woman was found. Her body was discovered in the back of a small, deserted alley near the third gate of the city. Like the first brutal murder that had happened almost two months prior, the girl was found strangled and violated, her face horribly maimed. The authorities were immediately concerned if they had an emerging serial killer on their hands because of the similar circumstances and execution of both murders. But they had no leads to go on except the mutilated bodies of the two girl whose bodies could tell no tales they could hear or read, and had to leave the case unsolved.

Thranduil again visited his comatose son that September. By now Legolas had been unconscious for over three years. Looking down at the pitiful shell of the once strong and vital young elf, Thranduil could not help but once again wish Legolas would just pass on and rest in peace so he and all those others left behind could finally mourn his passing and move on with their lives. He felt revolted by the thought, but even as he tried to push it from his mind, it still lingered there in the back of his head like a bad odor. He left shortly after arriving.

Another year passed and the became 1425. Seasons came and went and still Legolas slept.

In July of that year, there was yet another murder, this time committed somewhere between the fourth and fifth gates of the city. It was exactly like the other two. There was a stir of public concern, but the authorities quickly subdued it with assurances and promises of a heightened number of guards placed on street patrol at night. But despite attempts, the murders were no where near being stopped.

******

September 5, 1425

The leaves on the trees had begun to turn, slowly changing to vibrant hues of orange, red, and yellow. September came that year with early frost and biting winds. Winter would soon be upon the city of Minas Tirith.

Sitting alone in the heavy stillness of the large guestroom Legolas had used to call his own when visiting his friends in the white capitol of Gondor, Thranduil sat beside his son’s bedside, sadly staring down at the younger elf’s still face. This was now his fifth time visiting his comatose son since the terrible accident had trapped Legolas in his death-like sleep over four years ago.

Thranduil no longer really knew why he continued to go there to his son’s bedside. He could not do anything for his comatose son and had already given up all hope of seeing his son awake again. Yet still he came. In a way, his yearly visits to Legolas’ bedside had taken on the same role of a person visiting the grave site of a deceased loved one; a way of honoring the memory of the one gone, and keeping that person alive in one’s heart.

But unlike those that could mourn and remember those passed, Thranduil could not. For Legolas was not truly gone, but rather trapped in some sort of dreamless limbo between the living and the dead.

Thranduil barely even recognized his son anymore. Despite all attempts to stall the inevitable onset of muscle deterioration, Legolas’ body had begun to wither with disuse. Because of his shortening muscles and ligaments, Legolas had begun to slowly curl in on himself. Through the long years of his coma, he had also lost an incredible amount of weight, making his once slender and graceful body painfully thin and gangly. Legolas’ hair had begun to grow back at the site of his traumatic head wound, but it had come back almost pure white in color.

As Thranduil continued to woodenly stare down at the small unmoving form, the elven king tried to convince himself that this haggard form laying there in the bed before him was really his son. But no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t. This was not his son. It couldn’t be! Legolas was strong and beautiful, not this wretched creature now masquerading as his son.

The elven king could feel angry tears beginning to form in the corners of his eyes. It wasn’t fair! What had Legolas ever done to deserve this? Nothing! Yet it seemed the Valar had seen it fit to punish his son for sins he did not commit.

For a moment, the stoic king thought he was about to lose his resolve and weep for the injustice and hopelessness of his son’s plight. But before he could, Thranduil was startled out of his thoughts by the soft creaking of the door to Legolas’ room being opened and the soft rustle of cloth over the floorboards behind him. Turning in his seat, the elf looked back over his shoulder to see who it was that had come to join him. "Lord Elrond," he greeted with no real emotion in his voice.

"Lord Thranduil," the darker elf returned with a polite but solemn nod of his head, "I hope I did not intrude on you. If you wish, I can come back at a later time," he offered, seeing the distraught look lingering on the other elf’s ageless face.

"No. No, not at all," Thranduil said, quickly wiping a hand across his watery eyes and forcing the waver out of his voice, "I could actually use some company right now. No one else ever comes in here except servants to check on Legolas."

Elrond nodded and slowly came around to sit opposite Thranduil on the other side of Legolas’ bed.

"I just don’t know what to do anymore, Elrond," Thranduil sighed tiredly as the other elf took his seat across from him, "I want to stay here with Legolas, but I just can’t bare to see him like this anymore. I am so tired of coming all this way to Gondor to only find my son no different than the last time I saw him, and see his body slowly withering away. I just don’t know how much longer I can take this..."

Elrond shifted slightly in his seat. "That was actually what I came here to talk to you about..." he said, his voice low and calm as if he had long ago worked out in his head what he wanted to say. Thranduil immediately felt something inside him stiffen and tense as if in warning. There was something ominous in the other elf’s tone and demeanor he did not like.

"It has now been over four years since Legolas’ accident and he still shows no signs of regaining consciousness," Elrond continued, "After so long a time, it is almost certain Legolas will not wake up again..." he said, trailing off uncomfortably. The elf-lord then noticeably paused, as if reluctant to continue and say what he had actually come there to say.

"There is a potion I can make..." he finally said in a low, quiet voice, "I can release Legolas from this dark prison he is trapped in. It would not be painful, Thranduil. Legolas would feel nothing. He would only... slip away. It would be quick and very peaceful..."

Thranduil sat for a moment of shocked silence, unable to find words to respond. "You- you are suggesting that I kill my own son" he choked incredulously, unable to believe what he thought Elrond had actually just said, "You- you want me to murder my own child?!" he cried.

"Thranduil, I am only offering this to you as an option – whether it be now or later. Legolas is getting no better," Elrond tried to reason, "I despise such thoughts too, but if this was one of my own children in question, I would not want to see them slowly waste away like this. Legolas is immortal. He could stay like this for decades – or forever! – until he finally just fades away. I know that you still hold onto hope of him recovering, but I believe we must start to take into consideration what Legolas would have wanted. Would he have wanted to live like this? Being force fed and cared for like this day after day?"

Elrond’s words bit deep. Thranduil felt physically sick to his stomach with the notion of this decision Elrond had now presented him with. He wished he still did have hope like Elrond so believed, but he honestly did not. He had lost hope long ago. He had even had his own moments of selfish thoughts where he had considered such methods of freeing his son from his dark prison of unconsciousness, and in turn also free himself from this stagnant state of mourning he was in – grieving for the loss of his son, but unable to bury him and properly mourn his son’s passing so he could have a sense of closure and move on with his life. But it had also been his own selfish desire to latch on to the fading shell of his son that had kept him from ever considering such actions with much seriousness for any length of time.

But what was he to do now? Elrond’s words carried more truth to them than he wished to admit. Legolas would not have wanted to live like this. But could he actually euthanize his own son? Would he be able to live with himself after such a thing?

"I am sorry, Thranduil," Elrond said regretfully as he quietly rose from his chair and stood, "I hate to put such a burden on you, but I believe it is an issue that we must begin to address. I will do nothing without your consent. He is your son and so I leave the decision to you. I understand if you do not want to do anything at the present time, but just know that my offer stands."

The ancient healer then came round the bed and placed a comforting hand on Thranduil’s shoulder. "I require no immediate answer," he said before then turning and moving towards the door, "There is no hurry..." With that, the dark haired elf softly shut the door behind him, leaving Thranduil alone in the room with only his comatose son and the suffocating weight of his decision bearing down on his heart.

For several long moments, Thranduil just sat there, trying to comprehend everything that had just happened in the span of only a few short minutes. Finally, with no words spoken, Thranduil sat on the edge of Legolas’ bed and swiftly pulled his son’s body up into his arms much like he had done all those years ago when he had first seen Legolas laying there limp and lifeless in the House of Healing.

And with no care for pride or pretense to hamper his emotions, the stoic king began to bitterly weep into Legolas’ golden hair, mourning for both his son and himself, and the terrible decision he knew he would at some point have to make.

******

Thranduil left only several days after his talk with Lord Elrond. He told no one of Elrond’s offer, nor did the ancient healer. It had been a secret proposal made only to Legolas’ father. Elrond never spoke of his offer again, but Thranduil knew it was always there to be accepted if he ever did chose to free his son from the wretched prison of his own unconsciousness. But he could not bring himself to do such a thing just yet. Something deep inside him told him wait. For what he did not know, for there was no more hope of Legolas ever recovering, but he decided to heed his instincts nevertheless.

Later that November, the murder of another young girl took place, rising the death toll of the unknown murderer and rapist to four. Panic began to rise among the citizens of Minas Tirith. No one felt the streets of the city were safe anymore. But still the authorities could not find any leads or clues.

April, however, brought news of happiness and joy as Eowyn and Faramir announced the impending birth of their second child.

Thranduil did not journey to Gondor later that September. No one payed much notice to the elven king’s abstinence of his yearly visit to Minas Tirith except Lord Elrond. Only he really knew why Thranduil had not gone to his son’s side. He did not want to see Legolas again out of fear of finally succumbing to the grief and pain of seeing his son in such a state and finally asking Elrond to administer the fatal drink that would free his son from his wretched, half-life existence.

September passed uneventfully, but with the coming of October came the promise of something unforseen to occur; something both miraculous and terrifying. For it had now been five years since Legolas’ accident, and the dark chains binding the elven prince to his black unconsciousness were slowly beginning to fade. The time was now near for Legolas to stir and awaken from out of his deep sleep and return to the living world. And there discover his new and frightening powers where a single touch would deliver to him the terrible gift of second sight...

******

To Be Continued...

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Did you like it? Hate it? If you did, tell me. I accept all forms of criticism and response. I love to hear from you and see what you think of my stuff, even if it's a quick 'hey not to bad of a story you got going here'.

Well, you do know what’s going to happen next chapter, don’t you? It’s what you’ve all been waiting for. Hm, still no guesses? Ok, here’s a hint. A certain blond haired elf is going to be making one hell of a grand reentrance... One that no one will forget...

‘Till next time!