~Forgive Me~

Thranduil followed the sounds of weeping high into the ruins of Ravenhill, searching for his son. He paused and stepped back when he passed a crumbling archway that once led to a terrace. It was Tauriel. He began moving towards her, when he noticed over whom she was mourning. The Dwarven Prince, the dark-haired archer, had fallen.

He was dead, yet still she whispered something to him as if he could hear her; Thranduil watched her slip something into the Dwarf's gloved hand. Tears tracked her fair face from eyes as green as a bright spring morning, but these eyes were no longer so bright; no, they were shadowed with anguish and loss. Thranduil knew such a loss, and so he stayed, though he knew he must seek out his son.

"They shall wish to bury him," she whispered with a voice long breathless from grief.

"Yes," he agreed softly, coming closer to her.

"Away from me; away from the light and all that he loved and might have cherished if he had had but the chance," she said softly, studying his face; a dazed, spent look slipping across her features.

"It is their way; they did not know you loved him," Thranduil whispered back, now too studying the dwarf.

She looked up at him, startled; a new light came into her eye that was one of shock and mortification. "If this is love, then take it from me! For I do not want it; I do not think I can bear it," she cried, though her voice broke and she bent her head once more over the fallen Dwarf Prince.

"This is love, and you shall someday find you can bear it, though it seems hard," he confirmed gently. He stood over her for a moment, knowing that he could offer at least a small comfort in his presence; for it was better to weep in company than mourn with such grief alone. Let her spend it, and then he would go.

"Thank you, my Lord, for your pity, but might I have a moment alone? They shall come searching soon, and I wish just a few moments more; for surely I shall not be given the chance to attend his burial." She looked up at Thranduil after some time had passed, her eyes pleading.

"Of course," he murmured before bowing his head and moving to go; though he felt guilty of leaving her, he was relieved to be released to search for his son. Legolas should have found them minutes ago; Thranduil felt something was wrong, he felt it deep within himself.

He searched the rooms, going from level to level. He came across the blonde Dwarf Prince and paused, realizing that both the heirs of Thorin were no more. Pushing the thought from his mind he moved on. He gazed into yet another room and would have moved on, if not for what he saw. Legolas was not one to abandon his bow in the midst of a battle. Thranduil stepped cautiously into the large stone room, under his feet fine dust stirred, and he heard the crisp sound of freshly falling snow beneath his boots as he entered a large room with a gaping hole in the far wall, that appeared as if it had once been a window.

He turned, moving to peer around a large block of rough stone that had tumbled from a pillar in some day long passed when he heard something shift behind it. He froze in disbelief. Long blonde hair fell around the dying elf's shoulders, mingling with the dust on the floor of the ruins. Dark blood was spilt upon the boulder, roughly in the figure of a hand. Thranduil reacted by passing over the dead Orc and coming to kneel beside the lightly trembling form. He did not want to acknowledge it, but when blue eyes stared into his own filled with pain and surprise, he knew he must.

"Legolas?" His voice was soft, the question rhetorical.

"Ada. . ." the elf whispered as if he were an elfling again, passing the word over his lips in a drawn out sigh, trying to catch his breath against the pain.

Thranduil gently pulled Legolas' head and shoulders onto his lap, absently stroking the tangles from his son's blonde hair as he stared down at him. "Legolas, what happened here? Why did you not call for aid?" Thranduil asked, not truly expecting an answer.

"Ada. . . I'm so . . . sorry . . . for what . . . I have thought . . . against you. . ." the young elf whispered, looking up into his father's eyes, his voice barely discernable.

"No, ion nin, if anyone should ask forgiveness, it is I; oh, it is I," Thranduil's voice broke, and the strength in it faded to a feeble whisper as tears threatened to fall from his eyes.

"All you have . . . ever done . . . is protect me. . . Protect . . . Tauriel . . . I did not understand. . ." His breathing quickened and he shuddered slightly, trying to find the strength to finish his words.

"Do not speak, tithin las nin; do not waste your strength," Thranduil whispered. "I must tell you something, something that causes me to beg forgiveness from you; for it is more important than what you think you have done. Perhaps if I had told you sooner, this would be a better parting," Thranduil's voice caught, but he quieted for a moment.

"Your mother loved you, more than life, more than death; for in death, perhaps we should have been together evermore. But I could not follow her; because she loved you, she would not have me leave you. She said I could not be 'selfish' or 'cruel.' She would have stood beside you today; she would have fought for the Dwarves and their halls of stone; for the Lake-men and their city of Dale, the desolation of Smaug.

"But I do not have time for the speculations of a life not lived," Thranduil paused, staring off thoughtfully. "Your mother– you have her likeness. You have her spirit and her nature. While I should be content to remain within my Realm and nevermore leave, she constantly wished to go outside it and be among the others of the world.

"Simple answers were not enough for her questions; she felt that to understand she must see and feel – touch – that which she questioned. She wanted more than I could give her; when I saw this in you, I became fearful. I knew that you would wish to leave me after a time, and so I tried to keep you close; how could I have thought that to do such a thing would be to push you from me?" He looked down at Legolas. The Elven Prince could only stare up at his father, ignoring the pain for a time to take in that this was his mother being spoken of, his Naneth.

"What . . . did she . . . look like?" Legolas murmured the words, his voice hardly more than a whisper of wind in the stillness of the ruins and the gently falling snow beginning to drift deeper into the room.

"The light of the stars was less bright when I looked upon her face. When I stare into your eyes, it is to stare into hers. Her smile, it seemed to brighten the forest at dusk, and it made the world alive with a fire I do not see unless I stand near you," Thranduil declared, smiling at his son, trying to still his emotions to spend this last moment telling his son just how much he had been loved.

But Legolas could not see Thranduil's thoughts, and smiled faintly at his father's words. "Truly? You do not . . . say this because . . . of. . ."

"No, I do not. I could no more lie to you about your mother than you could miss your mark, ion nin," The Elvenking replied quickly, reassuringly.

Legolas looked up at his father for a moment before gasping, leaning closer to him and grasping the fabric of his cloak in his fingers, trying to wait for the pain to pass. Thranduil bowed his body over the Elf slightly, tears falling down his cheeks, thinking of how he had seen Tauriel not long ago; then a much older image passed before his eyes: that of his beloved wife as she lay perishing.

"I did not think pain . . . such as this, could exist, until now," Legolas whispered hoarsely, resting his head against the cool metal of Thranduil's armor. All the world seemed burning– on fire around him. At times he thought he saw flames, but he would look again and see only the deep crimson of his father's cloak and of his own blood.

"Do not dwell on it; it will pass, tithin las nin; it will pass," Thranduil whispered soothingly, his tears falling onto his son's blonde head.

Legolas forced himself to steady his breathing, to relax, though the pain continued to overwhelm him; passing over again and again as a wave crashes relentlessly into the shore. He wondered, would it ever cease? He opened his eyes, glancing down at the front of his tunic, the blood on his hand that was over the wound. He could not believe for a moment, just how dark it was.

"I . . . did not . . . understand . . . why you could not . . . bring yourself to lead . . . our people . . . into battle. Now I . . . understand, truly. You cannot watch them . . . suffer." Legolas' voice barely rose in volume; Thranduil leaned closer to hear his words.

"You are right, but also wrong. It was you I never wished to see suffer; I never wished to see you like this; how I prayed I might keep such a fate from you," Thranduil murmured, his voice catching at the end in a low cry.

"Ada?" Legolas looked up at his father, pulling back with what little strength remained in his once-lithe form.

"What, Legolas?" Thranduil stared into his eyes, for a moment recalling staring into his One's own blue eyes clouded with similar pain on another battle plain, many, many years ago.

"Forgive . . . Tauriel. Allow her to come home, to come . . . back," he whispered. "And . . . do not leave her . . . you must– help her . . . to understand." He gasped, inhaling sharply. "Do not mourn me . . . overmuch. . . I . . . I do not mourn for myself, here, now . . . please, you must– I am so sorry. . ." Legolas whispered before he moaned, closing his eyes tightly, his breathing unsteady.

"No, it is I who should say such words. . . You should not be the one dying. . ." Thranduil spoke softly, his voice breaking. Again, he whispered to his son of his mother. He told the young elf stories about her to perhaps ease his pain, to turn his mind from it. As he did, his time with Legolas passed before his eyes, in a slow parade of the moments he had lost because he had thought time would flow like the River Anduin: eternally and forever. He did not think it would be cut so ruthlessly short.

"Namárië, ion nin," Thranduil murmured as tears of guilt and grief fell down his face, holding his son close as he breathed his last.

{+}{+}{+}

"Ada, come; Tauriel and I are going to practice our archery! Will you not rest for but a moment and follow us?" Legolas smiled at his father blithely, his longbow in his hands, a quiver full of arrows at his back. Nearby, Tauriel stood, her own bow cradled carefully and a welcoming smile upon her face.

Thranduil stared at his son, contemplating. He truly did not have any more pressing matters to attend to. "Would that I could, ion nin, but I cannot; go on your way!" He nodded benevolently and smiled, as any father might, though his composure was perhaps more stiff and regal than any other father's might be.

Legolas looked down, a small smile – Thranduil did not realize it meant he was disappointed – coming to his face before he looked up again. "So be it then, Ada. Tenna' telwan," he declared with some measure of false cheerfulness, though his father did not know it then. He said something in an undertone to Tauriel before turning away. But the elleth stared at Thranduil for longer than necessary with a questioning, piercing gaze before following after her friend.

{+}{+}{+}

"Ada, Elrohir and Elladan sent me a letter; would you like to hear it? It is quite amusing; I felt I should die from laughter! They should not be allowed the uses of a quill, for they write most boldly!" Legolas grinned. Thranduil saw his One in that smile and heard her in the laughter. At that moment he did not think he could bear it, for he had just received word that a Fire-drake was rising up from the north, toward the Mountain.

"I cannot, Legolas, I must ride for Erebor; it is most urgent." He rose from his throne, descending the steps quickly to make for his private chambers. He paused as he turned to go. "But perhaps another time?" He glanced back at his son.

"Yes. . . Another time." Legolas nodded. His smile faded only partially, but the laughter left his eyes.

Thranduil knew with some small amount of guilt that there was certain to be no other time; Legolas would not offer again only to be turned away. He rapidly put the throne room behind him, embarrassingly relieved to have dealt with that so easily.

{+}{+}{+}

Tauriel pulled away from Kíli, he was surely gone; no amount of weeping would bring him back, she told herself. As she did, smiling forlornly, checking once more that his rune stone was in his hand, they came for him. The Dwarves stared at her oddly, but said nothing as they began to place him on a stretcher made of animal skins and rough, splintering wood.

"He fell bravely. . ." she whispered, causing one Dwarf to look up at her, a curious frown on his face. "He defended Thorin, his mother's brother with shield and body . . . and he defended me– I should be dead if not for his selflessness. . ." her voice seemed to be unable to continue, and she could say no more. It was then that she knew she should take her leave of them; she could do no more here. Not for her, and not for them. She had mourned her piece in silence and solitude, now so should they be allowed.

She was so quiet when she departed that Ori did not notice her; when he looked up to thank her for staying with Kíli's body to ensure that no birds or beasts disfigured it, she had already taken her leave. He knew she must be thanked in some small way, and made certain in that moment to ensure she was present for his burial.

Tauriel wandered the ruin, believing herself to be outcast and alone for eternity. She stopped when she heard movement in a room off the dark corridor to her right. Pulling one of her twin daggers, the only defense that remained to her since Thranduil had sliced her bow, she entered the room. She stopped in shock, her mind refusing to believe what her eyes were seeing.

Not Legolas, no! It could not be! He was too strong, determined, and too full of light and life. She paused in her hesitant advance at the edge of Thranduil's crimson cloak, which had splayed out across the ground when he had knelt beside his son. She had never really focused on blood in a battle; she had never been forced to truly acknowledge its presence until now, when she was given no other choice but to stare at Legolas's spilt upon the ground, darkening his tunic and his sleeve.

"I love you, my little green leaf, I love you," Thranduil whispered brokenly, not even looking at Tauriel or making move to show he knew of her presence.

And she thought that he did not know love; how foolish and stupid had she been to say such things? How blinded by her own fragile romance had she been? How could she have said that to him not many hours before? Uttered to inflict damage, she was certain they had left their mark and the Elvenking would do anything but welcome her back with willing arms.

But in that moment, she realized Thranduil needed something, and she knew what it was. He had given her comfort when he had stumbled upon her with Kíli's body, when he could have left her and found Legolas much sooner – perhaps even in time to spare him this fate – so she would try to give back to him what he had kindly bestowed upon her, though he had had no reason to show such compassion to her after all she had said to him.

"Legolas is dead, then." Her voice was hollow, though filled with anguish and pity for Thranduil; for what he had lost.

"My son . . . is dead," he confirmed slowly. "Perhaps he shall know his mother sooner than could have been thought after all." Thranduil stared around himself in a daze.

Tauriel let all thought of her actions fly from her head and knelt down beside Legolas's body with a small cry. "Oh, why is it not I who has died? I have done nothing but convince him to go against you, to fight for something he was not certain; it is my fault he is gone and I am here; it is my fault you have lost another so dear to you," she whispered to Thranduil.

"No. . . You only say this because the bite of loss is fresh to you, and you feel it keenly upon your soul; all who have lost feel they should die in place of another. Do not say such things. . . Legolas– Legolas did not ask me to inflict more guilt upon you. He and his mother would judge me harshly were I to do such a thing," Thranduil told her, staring absently at the stone floor. He cared not that he was ruining his cloak in the dust and damp of the melting snow that had been blown too near him by the breeze. He cared not that his son's blood stained his armor and gloves. The world could pass in fire and he would not have felt the burn.

"I am sorry, forgive me what I spoke in Dale; I did not know your thoughts and mind as well as I had assumed so presumptuously," Tauriel murmured, looking to the Elvenking.

"But you could have been right. I thought I did what I had done in love, keeping to the forest for so long, when in truth I was doing it selfishly, to keep my son by my side; away from a world that would not care if he were to perish in it," Thranduil answered softly, pulling his gaze away from his son and meeting hers. "After all I have done, he is still taken from me."

"Only for a time." Tauriel rested her hand upon his arm, beginning to feel uncertain of what comfort she could give when she herself still smart from the pain of her own loss.

"Legolas . . . he asked that you return with me to the Woodland Realm, would you?" Thranduil asked softly, his eyes almost pleading. For suddenly, he was met with a companion in this agonizing time; someone who understood what he felt . . . and what he had lost.

"I could not deny the final words of my friend," Tauriel answered, smiling sadly, casting her forlorn gaze once more over the Elf Prince's body. Thranduil did not reply to her words, but she knew somehow that he was grateful for such an answer.

And then he whispered the words he had whispered to his One before he turned away from her on the fields of war to fight for their son, because he must live. "Cormamin niuve tenna' ta elea lle au'." They were words he had hoped never to utter to his son.

"Namárië, mellonamin," Tauriel whispered after the silence washed over them, the snow seeming unbearably loud in the stillness. They stayed together until a party of elven soldiers came in search of them, keeping one another company in the loneliness of Death.

A/N:

I seem to be very good at writing dark one-shots or vignettes for Hobbit, I cannot tell you why.

Translations:

Ion nin: My son

Namárië,mellonamin: Farewell my friend

Cormamin niuve tenna' ta elea lle au': My heart shall weep until it sees thee again

Tithin las nin: My little green leaf

Naneth: Mother

Ada:Affectionate for 'father'

Tenna' telwan: Until later (then)

If I have forgotten any, please do be certain to point them out, I will be as quick as I can to add them to the list. For now, though, this is simply an idea that came to me as I was driving home from going out. I would also recommend that to add to the experience of reading this, one listens to Angels & Demons "Science and Faith" by Hans Zimmer. Or Kingdom of Heaven's "Burning the Past" by Harry Gregson-Williams. They sound elvish and mournful in my opinion.

If one did not notice, this leans more toward the book, and the writing style of Tolkien than the film, which is why everyone might seem a little OOC. They're only OOC if you think of them as the characters portrayed by the actors and actress in the films. But if you see them as those from the book - and pretend Tauriel is a book character too - they are not so OOC.

If this caused tears, please tell me; if this caused any emotional response at all, I would be interested, as all writers are, I think, in knowing how a reader is impacted by their creations or ideas. R&R,

WH