of roots and where they lie by hanneswrites

of doriath

Read of doriath

Thranduil holds on tight to his father’s hand as they make their way through the winding halls of the palace. He keeps his eyes focused straight ahead and tries very hard to look as serious as possible. He fails miserably after only a few moments, an excited grin turning up the corners of his mouth as they get closer and closer to the meeting hall.  It’s the first time his father has allowed him to come along to council and he’s made Thranduil promise to be on his absolute best behavior before they left this morning. 

 

When they finally arrive in the meeting hall, Thranduil is briefly taken aback by the sheer size of the cavern laid out before him. While it is not quite as large as the ballroom the yearly festival of starlight is held in, it is vast in a way that Thranduil thinks is slightly impractical. The long table sitting in the center of the hall is a solid cut of sheened oak with an array of golden lamps hanging down from the high ceiling, bringing a warm light to the center of the room. 

 

Oropher gently guides him toward the other side of the room and he notices for the first time that the King and Queen are already there, sitting side by side at the very end of the longtable.

 

Thranduil’s eyes shine in barely-kept wonder as he takes in all of the intricate beadwork and embroidery that give the illusion of tiny feathers and leaves flowing down the light green silk of Thingol’s robes. He sits slightly askew in his seat, a soft smile gracing his lips as he nurses a half-full glass of wine. He looks ethereal in the golden lamplight, the silver-strewn gems of his adorned crown bringing an almost unnatural glow to his features. 

 

Next to him sits the Queen, her hand delicately resting in Thingol’s between their twin seats at the head of the table. The pitch-dark of her hair reminds him of a starless night, and though she does not wear the same jeweled splendor as her husband, she too seems to emanate a radiance all her own. The pair of them are every bit as intimidating as his cousin, Celeborn, has described to him in the past, and it is glorious to him in a way that he cannot quite comprehend in the moment. 

 

“Thranduil,” he hears his father whisper, tugging sharply at his hand. 

 

It takes him a long moment to realize that his father is asking him to bow - and he quickly does, his face warming in embarrassment at having been caught unaware. His attention darts to Thingol’s face as he speaks. The King greets Oropher, but thankfully pays Thranduil no mind. Thranduil lets out a long breath of relief and tries to follow the conversation between his father and the King as it continues on past the customary greeting. He succeeds (somewhat) in determining that Thingol is pleased with a project Oropher had completed recently - though Thranduil knows not what that might be. 

 

Thranduil’s attention drifts once more as he notices Celeborn enter the chamber with his father. His cousin smiles at him in greeting and quickly follows his father to their seat near the King’s end of the longtable. When he tunes back into the conversation between his father and the King, their words are lost upon him. And thus, he allows his mind to wander for a time, taking in again the sights before him - the high vaulted ceilings, the golden lamps hanging about the walls, the interwoven stone and wood of the throne-like chairs the King and Queen sit upon and - 

 

And the Queen is staring at him. 

 

He makes solid eye-contact with her for what feels like an eternity, but in reality is likely to only be a few seconds. She smiles at him, a simple soft upturn of her lips, and he feels all at once the sensation of being both too cold and too warm. His breath halts in his throat for a long moment. He quickly averts his eyes and steps ever-so-slightly closer to his father, glad when Oropher finally takes his leave of the King and they make their way down the table to their seats. 

 

The meeting itself begins smoothly. Lords and delegates from all around the kingdom fill the seats of the hall, and Thranduil tries his very best to keep track of everything that is being said and all of the issues being raised and debated upon, often nodding silently along with any input from his father or Galadhon (because he knows his father generally agrees with him). 

 

At the one hour mark, he begins to find it a bit tedious.  

 

At the three hour mark, he starts to silently drum his fingers against his thigh in an effort to keep alert. 

 

At the five hour mark, he finds himself shifting in his seat every few minutes, fidgeting endlessly with the ends of his sleeves. 

 

He can see Celeborn watching him from further down the table, a smug grin crossing his face that Celeborn quickly hides behind his hand when Galadhon glances disapprovingly between them. Thranduil huffs quietly in his seat, only to nearly jump out of his skin when his own father settles a hand on his shoulder and gives him a serious look, leaning down to whisper to him.

 

“Be still,” Oropher tells him, and Thranduil straightens instantly, clasping his hands quietly on top of the table. 

 

Oropher gives him a soft smile and returns his attention to the meeting. Thranduil concentrates on being as still as physically possible, his hands clasped so hard together that his knuckles fade to white. 

 

Another while passes. More conjecture between lords that flies thoroughly over his head. 

 

Thranduil looks down at his hands and notices that they are distinctly no longer there. 

 

He stares disbelieving at the ends of his wrists. He moves his right hand, shifting it along the tabletop, even running his fingertip over a slight indent in the table’s surface in an attempt to see if he was just seeing things - he can feel the break in the wood, but he cannot see his hand moving along the surface. A wild sense of panic grips him, sending a chill down his spine and he notices, horrifyingly, that more of his right arm is fading. 

 

He sends a wild look over to his father and almost starts to open his mouth to say something - when the King begins speaking. His mouth snaps shut, the want to obey his father and not disturb the meeting momentarily overriding everything else. 

 

You could just be dreaming, he tells himself, taking a deep breath. 

 

He’s not sure which comes first, in the end - his hands disappearing and leaving a blank, clear nothingness at the ends of his wrists, or the strange warmth that seems to pervade the air around him. It is a similar warmth to that of clear sunlight willing the chill from one’s fingers on a late autumn morning. And it feels odd here, distinctly out of place in the cool mountain cavern. It feels even more odd warring against the panicked chill running through him at the moment. 

 

The warm feeling does not fade, even after a few minutes, and he begins to cast glances around the table to see if he’s missing something. Which is when he notices the Queen’s eyes on him once more. She is still smiling, and as he catches her gaze, the warm feeling grows. He watches as her eyes flit down to where his hands would be and finds himself confused as her smile turns distinctly playful.  

 

She holds his gaze again and he can hear her, though her lips do not move. 

 

Calm, little one.  

 

The warmth wraps around him tighter, settling over his shoulders like a woolen blanket. 

 

Calm. Breathe in.

 

Thranduil takes a deep breath and closes his eyes. 

 

Breathe out. 

 

He lets the air out of his lungs slowly, focusing on the grounding of the wood grain beneath his hands.

 

Again.

 

He breathes in, and out. In, and out. 

 

The warmth swirls around him.

 

He opens his eyes to find his hands resting where they should be on the table. The Queen smiles at him still.

 

---

 

The Queen does not speak to him when the meeting ends, and Thranduil leaves with his father as though nothing abnormal has happened. He tries to forget about it, though he very insistently avoids the corridor that meeting hall adjoins to for some time. 

 

A week after the council, a small, primly wrapped envelope arrives for Oropher. It carries an invitation, not only for Oropher himself, but also for Thranduil, to attend a meeting with the Queen. 

 

Which is how Thranduil finds himself in the situation he is in now. 

 

The path they take through the forest proves a bit difficult for him. Thranduil decides, as he trips for what feels like twentieth time during their short journey, that this trail either must not be used often or that it has been abandoned for some time. It seems, even to his untrained eye, to be unmaintained, with roots and vegetation twisting along the footpath in ever-increasing frequency. Vines and leaves hang down from the tall branches, mussing his hair every few minutes, and he finds himself quickly falling behind his father. 

 

Perhaps, he thinks, as he pulls yet another twig from his hair and barely manages to step over a green-tinged root that he hadn’t noticed a moment before, perhaps the forest just doesn’t like me. 

 

There is an odd sense that someone is watching him from the tree-cover, and it prickles the hair on the back of his neck, setting his nerves even higher. No movement, apart from the magpies and thrushes whistling in the branches overhead. No indication that anyone but himself and his father are out in this part of the forest.

 

“Thranduil,” Oropher calls ahead of him, and he rushes to catch up. 

 

In his haste, he doesn’t quite see the stray vine that has coiled itself across the path in time. It catches the toe of his boot at the exact wrong moment, sending him flying face first into the damp soil and brush. 

 

Thranduil groans, grimacing as he pushes himself off the ground. He frowns down at his clothes, now covered in remnants of mud and leaves. Tiny twigs and brambles seem to have embedded themselves into the fabric as well, leaving him looking like he’d just rolled through the entire forest by the time he rights himself on his feet. 

 

He brushes himself off the best he can and finally catches up to his father. 

 

“Took a tumble there, hm?” his father says, disentangling a leaf from his hair. He gently runs his fingers through Thranduil’s hair, smoothing down all of the tiny little flyaways he’s accumulated along their walk, “You need to be more careful, little one.” 

 

Thranduil huffs at him in response, and Oropher just smiles at him fondly and helps him pick the remaining brush from his clothes.

 

They reach their destination a short time later, and Thranduil narrows his eyes at the perfectly even branched archway that presumably leads to the clearing where they’re supposed to be meeting the Queen. It is suspiciously well-kept, with flowers both adorning the arch and bracketing the entrance in neat rows. They’re beautiful, of course, full bloomed hibiscus and zinnias often are. But, Thranduil knows, they also typically do not grow under full treecover - they need direct sunlight. Beautiful, vibrant, distinctly out of place. 

 

Oropher guides him through the archway. 

 

The Queen sits at the stone table with her hands folded in front of her, an expectant and curious look crossing her features as the two of them step into the clearing. Oropher gives a slight bow as they come closer, and Thranduil awkwardly follows suit. The Queen’s gown is a light shade of blue today, with open sleeves that flow down her arms like the crystal clear waterfalls Thranduil has seen in the north.

 

“Good morning, Your Majesty,” Oropher says, smiling bright as the mid-morning sun. Thranduil is well aware of how excited his father was to receive a private invitation from the Queen, but he cannot quite bring himself to match his father’s enthusiasm. He’s been nervous since the letter arrived, even more so now that the day has come and they stand here before the Queen. She had said nothing at the end of the council meeting - a silence he appreciated, as he did not know (and still does not know ) how he would go about explaining to her what had happened to him.

 

“A lovely morning, indeed,” Melian replies, bringing Thranduil out of his reverie. She waves her hand in a gesture clearly meant to offer the two of them the seat across from her and they comply. 

 

A wilted zinnia sits in a little glass pot on the table between them. Thranduil stares at it for a long moment before looking up at the Queen. Her ice-blue eyes are less unsettling than they were on the day of the council meeting, but still intimidating nonetheless. He feels the slight urge to slink back into his chair, but instead straightens his back and looks down at his hands, almost as if he’s checking instinctively to make sure they’re still there. 

 

“My lady,” Oropher starts, “May I ask what prompted this meeting?” 

 

Melian tilts her head slightly, a playful smile donning her lips.

 

“Of course,” she says, and she brings one finger up to her lips, as if she’s trying to parse out the best way to explain something. Her gaze falls upon Thranduil after a moment, “I wish to test something, I suppose.”

 

“Test something?” Oropher repeats, eyebrows knitting together in confusion. Melian says nothing in response; she simply slides the wilted zinnia a bit closer to her own side of the table.

 

She runs a single fingertip along the edge of one of the shriveled leaves and it lifts slightly, perking up and slowly filling with life. A small, bright pink bud forms on one of the stems and Thranduil stares, mesmerized as it blooms right before his eyes.

 

Melian pushes the zinnia carefully across the table toward Thranduil and tilts her head expectantly. 

 

“Go on, little one,” she says, and Thranduil is, quite honestly, confused as to what she wants him to do.

 

He looks to his father and Oropher smiles at him, nodding his head encouragingly. Thranduil tentatively reaches out and touches the new bloom, feeling the soft petals beneath his fingertips. It seems to shudder slightly under his touch, but he thinks that’s likely just the wind. 

 

Until, that is, one of the longer leaf stems very obviously reaches out toward his hand and weaves its way through his fingers. He pulls away suddenly, brow furrowing as it tries to follow his hand. 

 

Melian hums, reaching over the table to take the wayward stem in hand, coaxing it back into the pot. 

 

“Just as I thought,” she smiles, eyes lighting up as she notices another new bloom steadily forming near the first one. Her hands overlay Thranduil’s on the table and he looks at her, those intimidating pale eyes focused solely on him, as if she is attempting to look directly into his fëa. 

 

“I would very much like to take you on as an apprentice, should your father allow it,” the Queen says. Thranduil’s eyes widen and all he can do is stare at Melian’s hands laid over his own as his father quickly accepts.  

 

---

 

Melian taps his hand gently and he stops writing, looking up at her in the soft afternoon light. Her fingers are akin to ice against the warm skin of the back of his hand, as they often are these days, and he makes no move to mention it. 

 

 "There is a mistake in the rune there - it should be 'las' not ' lasse '." She tuts, and he crosses out the mistake and corrects the verse. The thrushes sing high in the garden, perched all along the high walls and bushes, and Melian sings back to them, harmonizing easily with the music of the life around them as she twirls slowly amongst the violets and lilacs. 

 

He makes short work of copying the rest of the text and when he's finally finished, his mentor is sitting upon a swing composed of multicolored vines she's called down from the canopy overhead. She waves a hand at him, inviting him to join her, and he does. He tucks his runebook into his robes and closes his eyes for a brief moment, whistling high and exerting a small portion of his fëa to call down a few vines of his own. They wrap gently around his wrist as they descend, brushing tentatively against his fëa and eventually bending to his will. 

 

Melian hums softly as he joins her, his own set of vines rising just enough for his feet to dangle a few inches from the ground. 

 

"Impressive," she grins at him. A thrush lands on her shoulder and she guides it gently into her hand, petting its head softly. "You've improved so much over the last few years, little one." 

 

He says nothing, but a proud warmth weaves its way into his chest. Melian extends the hand the thrush is perched on to him and he meets it, allowing the bird to climb onto his finger. It nuzzles his hand and pecks softly at his thumb until he resumes giving it gentle head pets just as Melian had. 

 

"I think perhaps it's time for me to teach you something a bit more difficult, hm?" The thrush in his hand twitters happily, as though it agrees with her. 

 

He looks at her with a questioning tilt of his head, “More difficult?” he asks, and she does not look at him. Her fingers wrap around the vines holding her makeshift swing to the branches above, and she swings ever-so-slightly forward, her gaze locked upon what lies beyond the entrance to the little haven of a garden she’s created for herself.

 

"Protection," she says, and she catches his eye as she tilts backward, “How to protect yourself and how to protect the realm.”
 

“Like the Girdle?” he asks, and she smiles at him.

 

“It is not an easy task, looking after people like this.” Melian turns, leaning forward in her swing and taking his hands in her own. She is cold - so cold that it seeps inexorably into his skin and for a moment all he can think about is how much he wants to pull away from the touch, but he stays firm and meets her eye. A challenge or an invitation, he knows not, but he has never been one to back down either way. 

 

He nods. The thrushes sing high in the garden, and Thranduil shivers in the warmth of the summer breeze.

of eryn galen

This chapter takes place after a time-skip and would begin some time after Thranduil moved his people away from Aman Lanc and restablished in the Mountains of Mirkwood.

Read of eryn galen

Thranduil closes his eyes for a moment, feeling the exhaustion of the day sink into his bones, and he takes a long sip of his wine. He’s finally made it back to his chambers after a long day of council meetings and appeasing visiting dignitaries, all of whom seem to be focused in on the ever-present problem of the darkness weaving its way through the forests of Eryn Galen. 

 

It consumed Amon Lanc faster than Thranduil could handle - a nice reminder, in the wake of his return from war, that despite how much he prepares, how much of himself he puts forth to keep the darkness at bay - that there are simply some things he  cannot do, and that all things inevitably fall to ruin in time.

 

He maintains the barrier around his new halls now, carved into the mountains of the northern forests. Smaller than Amon Lanc and thus more manageable. His people have consolidated closer and closer to the palace in the last few years and that makes things easier for him - but it is still not ideal. 

 

When he is alone like this, he thinks often of how Melian might have felt all those years ago. Did this same burden of protection sit so heavily upon her shoulders as it does his? Did it consume her? Drain her? As it does him? Beleriand was so much more dangerous than the threats currently sitting at Thranduil’s borders. He regrets, now, not having asked her about it. And yet - as he thinks of Amon Lanc, of the grief of losing everything his father had built and how even in the wake of that grief, he cannot imagine leaving all of them - his friends, his family, his people - to face the coming darkness alone. Amon Lanc may have been lost, but they, for the most part, are safe. He can feel the burden of the realm upon him as a tangible weight, sitting in his chest and chilling his very core. He finds himself chilled even in the dead of summer and no amount of fire or coverlets or robes have been able to warm him. 

 

Thranduil frowns, pulled out of his reverie by the unmistakable sound of Celeborn’s footsteps in the hallway outside of his chambers. Whether he’s coming to counsel him or console him, it matters not. He is in no mood for guests, least of all guests who tend to hesitantly walk the line between old friend and ‘lord of neighboring lands who wants to ensure all of their trade agreements are intact’.

 

He lets Celeborn get a bit closer to the doors of his study, and then he reluctantly stands, makes his way over to the dark woven-oak door, and places his hand square in the middle of it, feeling the unpolished grain beneath his palm. He lets out a long, low whistle. An old melody of wandering and muddled purpose tumbles from his lips like a soft prayer, and he regrets it almost immediately. 

 

A wave of fatigue runs through him and leaves him breathless as he finishes the last line of the song. There is a chill permeating through his fingers despite the warm summer air around him, a cold he knows will not fade for a while yet. He places his forehead against the door and waits, closing his eyes and hoping that Celeborn will continue on down the hall, none the wiser that Thranduil’s chamber door has suddenly disappeared from outside view. His breath steels in his lungs for a long moment as he hears Celeborn right outside the door, and then - 

 

The footsteps continue on down the hallway. Thranduil lets out a long breath. His fingers ache when he places them gently in his pockets, trying in vain to warm them under the thick velvet of his robes. Briefly, he contemplates sending for supplies to start a fire in his hearth, but thinks better of it. 

 

He needs to rest. And yet, as he settles down on his bed and wraps himself in his thick woolen comforter, he feels very distinctly restless. His mattress holds no solace for him, nor do the expanse of pillows lining his headboard. He shifts, his fingers ache, his lungs ache, he is consumed with a weariness that will not fade even as he sinks further into what should be the comfort of his bed, the comfort of home.   

 

I’ve been inside for too long, Thranduil thinks, as he stares at the carved stone of his ceiling. The only light that flickers in his chambers is a golden lamp on his bedside table. It is only early evening now, he knows. Outside, the mid-summer sun will be setting in just an hour or two, and when he closes his eyes he can picture the soft auburn of it dancing among the branches of the forest. 

 

He misses the open chambers he had in Amon Lanc. They were smaller than the ones he built for himself here, in these underground caverns that pay only small homage to the great halls of his youth. But they were magnificent all the same - a small balcony overlooking the southern forest with tall crystalline windows to let the morning light in framing either side of it. He  spent decades cultivating a veritable garden of different plants and saplings - his favorite being a variety of creeping moonseed that sprawled across the outer edges of his chambers. The thrushes and nightingales of the southern forest would visit him often, perching upon the branches of his saplings to sing and play amongst the leaves. He would speak to them often and they would bring him news from the outer reaches of the realm. And then? And then --

 

Thranduil squeezes his eyes shut. 

 

Breathe in. 

 

Breathe out. 

 

A matter of necessity, he reminds himself, a matter of safety. 

 

For himself, for his people, for his family.  

 

Breathe in. 

 

And out. 

 

Perhaps tomorrow he can steal away after lunch and head out into the forest for a while. It really has been too long since he’s ventured beyond the walls of the palace. A bit of fresh air and sunlight will do him some good. Being down here for so long has made him feel disconnected and at odds with himself. 

 

He lets his shoulders relax, sinking deeper into the covers and letting out a long sigh of relief as the warmth begins to return to his fingertips. At this point he’s so desperately exhausted that it takes him only a moment to start to drift off to sleep.

 

His eyes have been closed for barely a minute when a voice calls out to him from the hallway. 

 

“Your Majesty?” Galion’s voice sounds alarmed enough to pull Thranduil from bed. He quickly makes his way over to the door, but hesitates just as he’s about to turn the door handle and break the illusion keeping Galion from finding his chambers. He needs to rest, surely this can at least wait a little while - 

 

“My King, I know you likely don’t want to be disturbed at the moment, but your son has gone missing from his chambers, and we cannot find him anywhere in the palace,” Galion says, voice wavering just the slightest bit through the walls, and Thranduil’s blood runs cold.  

 

It takes Thranduil only a few minutes to find himself walking frantically through the trees, just as the sun begins to set upon the horizon, casting long shadows along his path as he heads further from the walled protection of his halls. The growing darkness has not reached this part of the forest yet, he knows, but that does not mean that dangerous and unexpected things do not linger here - a thought present at the forefront of his mind as he scans the brush and branches for his son. 

 

He trusts the forest to guide him, as it often does, to exactly where he needs to be. And he is not disappointed.  

 

North, it calls to him, and he follows. Branches shudder as he passes, and he feels his own worry reflected in the atmosphere around him. The song of the forest chatters in the mid-summer air, a thousand quiet voices coalescing into one. This way, it says. He stumbles forward into the brush, off the well-beaten path, and the roots and leaves part for him, guiding him further onward. 

 

Further into the forest, a nightingale calls overhead, and he whistles high in answer. It swoops down to greet him, flapping its wings excitedly as it begins to sing, beckoning him to trust its path. He does, though he struggles to keep up as it weaves quickly through the trees. 

 

In a short time, he finds himself stumbling through the underbrush and into a part of the forest he hasn’t had a chance to visit in a long while - a large domain of old, soft needled pines. This part of the forest has always been Legolas’s favorite. When he was much younger they would travel up here and he would play amongst the fallen expanse of soft white pine needles. Thranuil would help him collect pine nuts to roast over the evening fire and they would camp out under the stars. But that was before - when Amon Lanc still held strong, when the prospect of being alone in the forest at night wasa welcome and magical experience he was excited to share with his son, when he wasn’t so tired.   

 

The nightingale’s song pitches high as it circles one of the large pines once, then twice, before diving back down to where Thranduil is standing. He reaches out a hand and it perches gingerly on his fingers. 

 

“Thank you,” Thranduil breathes, and the nightingale eagerly chirps back at him before taking off once more. 

 

Legolas sits, hidden thoroughly among the branches of the pine tree the nightingale  led him to, leaning against the trunk with his knees pulled up to his chest and his head buried in his arms. He is still small enough that the softwood branch barely bows beneath his weight. 

 

“Legolas?” Thranduil says, softly placing a hand upon the tree bark. Thranduil can hear its whisper clear in his mind. 

 

Safe, the old pine breathes and sways in the late evening wind, Safe, it repeats. And Thranduil closes his eyes for a moment, all of the uneasy panic that had built up inside of him leaving his body in a long, slow exhale. 

 

Thranduil wraps a hand around one of the lower-hanging branches and hoists himself up into the canopy, footwork sure and true as he finds himself climbing nearly halfway up the tree to reach his son. He perches on a branch close to the one Legolas is sitting on and waits a few moments.  

 

“Little Leaf?” Thranduil starts again, his voice softer now, “Are you alright?” 

 

Legolas tilts his head slightly to the side, peering out from his arms with one eye, “I’m fine.” He makes no move to continue, and Thranduil does not push him. The silence stretches on between them and the sun sinks lower on the western horizon. 

 

Thranduil resigns himself to a long walk back in the dark and curses himself for not having enough foresight to bring a lantern with him. He glances down at his hands, feeling the weak spark of his fëa beneath his fingertips and wonders absently if he’ll have enough in him to at least light a spark to guide their way. 

 

“You’re staring at your hands again,” Legolas says, almost too quiet for him to hear. He’s turned to face him more now, and Thranduil can see the puffiness around his eyes and mottled redness spread across his cheeks. He’s been crying. Thranduil’s heart lurches and his hands ache to reach out to his son, to soothe, to wipe away what’s left of his tears and shelter him until they can get home. A fool’s errand, he knows. Legolas is too old now to be comforted by coddling. 

 

Legolas lets out a huff and slowly unfurls himself, looking up into the branches overhead. 

 

“ Ada,”

 

“Legolas,”

 

They both start at the same time, cutting each other off. Legolas grits his teeth. They stall for another long while. 

 

“I’ve been asking Galion if I could see you all day,” Legolas says, and Thranduil can tell that’s not originally what he’d been intending to say, “I just--” He cuts himself off, looking down at his hands.

 

Thranduil does reach out this time, settling a steady hand on his son’s shoulder in a gesture he hopes is comforting in some way. Legolas meets his eyes, a small, sad smile crossing his face, and Thranduil can feel in an instant everything his son is trying to tell him - everything he’s feeling. A familiar warmth and love sit just at the surface, but delving deeper in he finds a pervading sense of loss, of loneliness, that echoes through his thoughts like a stone tossed into an empty wellspring. Thranduil’s hand tightens on Legolas’s shoulder. He recognizes, very distinctly, that this sense of loss is directed toward him, and that same wayward thought from before springs back into his mind - of just how long it has been since they’ve been in this part of the forest last. Of just how long it has been since he’s spent any real time with his son.

 

Thranduil pulls back, eyebrows knit together in concern. Legolas shifts across from him, hands disappearing into his pockets for a moment before he pulls out a green linen pouch. It rustles softly as Legolas holds it out to him and he takes it, gently unwrapping the leather tie at the top to reveal a small harvest of pine nuts.   

 

Thranduil ties the bag shut after a few moments and tucks it safely into his pocket. He feels a comforting wave of affection wash over him and for the first time in a long while he feels well and truly warm .

 

As soon as Legolas’s feet hit the ground Thranduil pulls him into a tight hug and tries desperately to mirror that warmth and convey, at least in some small capacity, just how loved Legolas is.

 

“Home?” Legolas asks, and Thranduil nods. 

 

---

 

Their journey back to the palace is relatively uneventful - the soft glow of the nearly full moon allows them just enough light on the larger pathways through the forest to navigate safely. Thranduil walks Legolas back to his room and stays with him a while - they talk about many things, from how Legolas is doing in his lessons as of late to how he feels about his new set of rooms and how his friends are faring since the move from Amon Lanc. Legolas starts to drift off after a while, settling back into his pillows and struggling to keep his eyes open. 

 

“Can we,” Legolas starts, but pauses for a long moment before continuing, “Can we go out to the pine forest again, sometime?”     

 

Thranduil gives him a small smile and nods.   

 

“Soon,” Thranduil says, tucking the covers around him. He smooths down Legolas’s hair and bends down to press a soft kiss to his forehead. “Soon, I promise.” 

 

Thranduil finds his way back to his chambers and pours himself another glass of wine. He sits on the chaise spread out before his hearth and takes a long sip before leaning back and closing his eyes. The wine glass twirls in between his fingertips and he thinks of many things - the past, the present, the future. The fate he was tossed into so many years ago, the potential laid out before him now. And he thinks, most of all, about whether or not Legolas is old enough now to start attending council meetings. 

 

He takes another sip of wine, lets his body relax into the cushions of the chaise, and listens to the faint, comforting music of the forest spread out around him. 

 

Tomorrow, he tells himself, tomorrow.