Something there is that doesn't love a wall by kimikocha

Something there is that doesn't love a wall

Read Something there is that doesn't love a wall

When a young Legolas first asks the innocent question at the breakfast table, Thranduil knows the moment he answers that he’s only made things worse.

“Nana,” his second-born inquires through a mouthful of stewed berries, “How come your eyes are so shiny?”

It’s a simple question, the sort a child would ask. Thranduil and Anneryn could have anticipated it and agreed on the answer, had it ever occurred to either of them — but it hadn’t. Nor had it ever come up with their firstborn, Cúlalf, the crown prince. In the many centuries gone by since Thranduil wed his spouse, then called Alcarinna, it seems the two of them have… well, not forgotten. It would be impossible to forget. Yet as tends to be the way of truths that are both uncomfortable to mention and difficult to conceal, it seems the King and Queen of Mirkwood had forgotten how to talk about it.

In a split second, Thranduil’s eyes meet those of his spouse across the table, shining amid the delicate leaves inked onto their skin in the wood-elven manner. Between the leaves Anne’s face is a touch pale, frozen — as if before their bright eyes, they can see centuries of their hard work being stripped away to naught.

They’re not ready to have this conversation. They’ve tried so hard to avoid needing to tell anyone. Thranduil needs to handle this, and he doesn’t know what to do.

“Some people just do,” he tells Legolas — a little too loudly, a little too brusquely. His young son notices the tone, a little frown starting to appear on his face as Thranduil follows it up with, “It’s not polite to talk with your mouth full. Why don’t you finish your bite, and then say something?”

This won’t be the end of it, Thranduil knows as much. Legolas is already giving him a look; his middle child is as stubborn as he is inquisitive, and is already showing quite a streak of independence. Unless Legolas realizes for himself that it’s a sensitive question, he’s going to raise it again. Even as Thranduil intercepts his youngest child’s attempt to climb onto the table to reach the bread basket (“Gilorn, ionneg, how about you sit down nicely and ask your Nana to pass that to you?”) he knows he’ll have to talk to Anne about it.

“I’m not a little man,” Thranduil’s youngest scolds him, pouting. “I’m a girl right now.”

“My apologies, sellig. Ask your Nana to pass you the breadbasket.”

Little Gilorn, rosy-cheeked and possessed of a single stubborn blond lock that chooses to be curly despite the rest of her hair being straight, has either made themselves known or entered that phase. The one where, having made the discovery that boys and girls and so forth can be something you feel instead of the parts that you have, she’s been trying different options out like clothing. Her brothers went through it too; Cúlalf, Thranduil suspects, might go through it again. Gilorn, who oft announces a change when asked to do something (“it’s time to put your toys away,” “you need to get ready for bed”) she doesn’t want to do, might well be using it to remind her parents that this matter is one that she controls, and she alone. If so, it is of little consequence. Anneryn and Thranduil have spoken about having their youngest use the neutral forms of address if the changes grow over-frequent, but elsewise — it is her domain, and she’s welcome to it.

“Thranduil-aran?” Ferion, the king’s secretary whose fingers are inked with bright florals, has no sooner opened the door before two elf-children come flying into the room, unconcerned by formality or majesty. Thranduil recognizes them — they’re around Legolas’ age, both members of the small group of children who take lessons together at and around the palace.

The taller one, Losseneth, who inherited her mother’s dark complexion and her ancient Silvan father’s striking silvery hair — she notices Thranduil and makes a perfunctory bow, mostly waving at his middle child. “Legolas! Gwaehanar-istonor said we’re going on an adventure today!”

‘Adventure,’ in the children’s parlance, meaning the occasions where the adults assigned to educate and look after the children bring them on trips into the forest to learn its ways in a practical setting. Always nearby, only on days when enough adults were available to split the children off in small groups, but the young ones seem to love it.

Rusclof, the younger child, takes no note of Thranduil or Anneryn, calling to his friend and waving his arm enthusiastically. “Yeah! Hurry up!”

“Mmph,” says Legolas through a mouthful of honeyed bread crammed directly into his mouth, “‘m coming! Wait for me!”

He is the first of their children to be raised from the start in the village system, the formalized version of an informal arrangement which developed after the alliance with Gil-galad. Thranduil, his spouse, and those remaining officials of the government who found themselves with concurrent responsibilities of raising their children and rebuilding their kingdom had pooled their resources. For the Silvan and Sindar it was nothing new to raise children in common, but the wood-elves’ heavy losses in Mordor lent an air of urgency to the endeavor. There was a sense in the air, Thranduil recalls, that death could come at any time — almost as if parents now had to prepare for their children to lose them one day, and needed to impart their wisdom while they still could.

Yet the years following the Dagorlad were challenging for Mirkwood’s government, and left scarcely any time for the traditional means of child-rearing or education. That was what had given rise to the initial informal arrangement; but the same years saw a sharp rise in the number of children being born, and the system caught on. It was formalized a year or two after Legolas’ birth — it’s strange in a way, to think it’s something he’s always known.

“Have a good day, little leaf,” Anneryn says warmly, reaching out to hug their son as he rises. Their brief signs of panic are nowhere to be seen — it seems as if they’ve been saved by the distraction, though they’ll still need to discuss it. This won’t be the last time the topic comes up.

“You too, Nana.” Legolas hugs Thranduil next. “Bye, Ada.”

“Take care, ionneg.”

As the children are leaving, Ferion catches Anne’s eye and bows. “Anneryn Pengronhír,” he says, using their title — lord of archers, denoting them the leader of Mirkwood’s slowly recovering military. There is something reserved about his posture — feet close together in their soft-soled shoes, arms held tight to his sides. By the look of things, there’s something wrong.

“Gilorn, sellig,” Thranduil says to his youngest, “how would you like to walk with me to your lessons a little early?”

“That’s not right,” pouts the little one, sticking out a petulant lower lip. “I’m a boy now. But, all right. I’ll go.”

Cúlalf, more considerate than perhaps he should be at his age, rises quietly and makes as if to leave himself. Thranduil, knowing very well where, how, and why his eldest would have such a sense, stops him for a moment and pulls him into an embrace.

“I love you,” he says rather awkwardly into Cúlalf’s dark hair, wishing not for the first time that he had the wisdom to know how to fix this. “You’ve been doing very well, ionneg. I’ll see you for the council meeting after your lessons?”

His eldest child nods, also a little awkwardly, and hugs him back. “I love you too, Adar.”

Thranduil has tried his best not to be hard on his younger children the way he was with his first. It feels as if he has no idea what he’s doing as he tries to change his relationship with Cúlalf, but Anneryn shoots a brief smile across the table at them as if they approve.

*

Ornelen is clearing the breakfast table when Thranduil returns. He nods to her before heading directly to the bedroom to speak with his spouse.

“Spiders,” says Anne, spying him in the glass as he enters. They’ve clearly deemed Ferion’s message urgent enough to head out immediately: Thranduil spies their hunting leathers laid out on the bed, weapons piled on the desk.

“Again?” The giant spiders are a fact of life in Mirkwood, but the trouble they’ve had with them of late bodes ill. Thranduil grimaces as he goes to his spouse, picking up the breeches they’re about to put on and handing them over.

“Yes.” Quietly, Anneryn elaborates. “First, it was a family. One which lived at the far outskirts of a settlement to the south. A parent, an aunt or uncle, and two children, one young.” Minutely, they shake their head; the slender, thread-like lines of ink at their temples catch the light. “I gather they were not particularly well-known in the community. It seems it took more than a week for anyone to check up on them and realize what had befallen.”

A week is lengthy in the wood-elves’ reckoning, at least for those who live in the towns and villages scattered through the branches of trees and dug out beneath the earth. It could take far longer than that to learn the fate of those whose lives are more nomadic, spent hunting game or traveling between locations known to sprout certain sought-after herbs and the like, but that is not usually a lifestyle for families. Most of the wood-elves in the settlements are in constant interaction — moving into and out of each others’ homes, watching one another’s children. For an absence to go unnoticed for more than a week, this family must have been isolated indeed.

Thranduil makes a sorrowful noise and shakes his head. “How unfortunate.”

“After that, more began disappearing.” Anne sits down on the side of the bed to pull their boots on. “Many more. Webs began to appear within meters of the village. The hunters would clear them out, but more appeared. They’ve begun to keep fires burning day and night. Many of the villagers have banded together to sleep in a single central talan, which the hunters have been guarding in shifts.”

“Anything sighted in Dol Guldur?” Disquieted, Thranduil sits down beside them. “These spiders of late aren’t simply aggressive — they seem to be intelligent.”

Boots on, Anneryn doesn’t immediately rise, reaching out to take their husband’s hand. “You know I’ve had the same thought. None of the reports indicate activity in that area, though it’s hard not to suspect it. If things continue this way, love… we may lose a great deal of territory in southern Mirkwood, at the least. I know our ministers are reluctant to ask the people to mobilize again with all still recovering from the losses in the Dagorlad, but…”

“We may not have a choice.” Thranduil sighs heavily. “Tell me what you find on this trip, and we’ll have Ferion set a place on the agenda. You’ll be better suited to describe what we’re facing for the council than someone who has not ridden out in years.”

“Which I’ll remind you, husband, is a wise choice.” Anneryn wraps a strong arm around his shoulder. “Greenwood does not need to fear losing another sovereign in armed conflict in these times.”

“…I would rather not lose you, Anne.”

“Well, you haven’t thus far, have you?” They squeeze his shoulder. “I love you, my dearest.”

Their eyes shine so bright. “I love you, too.”

*

Lo-lo, lo-lo, long ago, long ago…

If a weary traveler wandering close to Mirkwood’s southern reaches should be so desperate or so foolish as to trust in strangers with stranger countenances, they might find themselves luckier than might be thought. For the two strange creatures who might be found there are — not unkind, or so the ancient elms will say. Their lives are not lived to guide wayward wanderers, of course, and they are shy as night parrots, little inclined to make themselves known — but if one approaches quietly and with kindness, or in fear approaching death, they may step forth from the shadows.

They are twins, supposedly, and elves — or something close enough, at least. The elder, Faechith, is said to be silver-pale as the moon, with lips as blue as winter frost; his eyes are a translucent grey, no darker than down on a collared dove’s breast. Beneath the stars her light is wraith-like, easy to mistake for ash-grey shadows amid the trees.

There are some who say that Faechith has no voice. He looks instead to her younger sister-brother, Norcheneb, who knows how to speak, if not well — but there is something odd about that, they say. Something strange; something not quite right. The twins look the same, of course, but where Faechith is at least… recognizable, Norcheneb is somehow… nothing short of hideous.

And-yet, and-yet, the short-lived cicadas sing. How could that be?

*

There are those who say that unlike cicadas, the Elves live forever. Their time-of-learning is longer by far; it never ends, unless they desire it. There are even some who say they are wise.

“…And that’s why you shouldn’t wander toward the south,” proclaims an elven child in Northern Mirkwood. Leagues distant from its southern shadows, this child sits almost hidden in a great tree’s leafy boughs, confident as any young elf born to forest paths. “‘Cause the twins will get you. And probably eat you.”

“The twins aren’t real, stupid,” a young Sinda boy says loudly. Golden-haired and smaller than his peers, he sits cross-legged at the bottom of the tree where the children are playing, using a stick to draw designs in the dirt. “They’re just Mannish stories.”

A dark-eyed Silvan girl stands up on one of the branches, tall and spindly as a newborn colt. Glowering down at the boy, she puts her hands on her hips. “They are real. My uncle’s husband saw them. He said it wasn’t even scary, just a reminder that we should be kind to one another.”

The boy scowls fiercely at the dirt, jabbing a small rounded stone with his stick. “He probably just fell in the river.”

“He did not! You be quiet.”

“He probably fell in the river, just like your brother did when you were supposed to be watching him.”

“Shut up!” A rictus of fury contorts the girl’s face as she struggles with another blond Sinda boy, a little shorter than her, who reaches out to grab her before she jumps down to where the smallest boy sits. “Ci orch ‘waur! You should go back where you came from! Avof nathlad ‘werth min daur vîn!”

“You’re even dumber than an orc.” The smaller boy shoves a hand in his pocket, still holding the stick out in front of him as he stands up. “At least I didn’t—”

“Let go of me, Legolas!”

The Sinda boy on the branches wobbles and nearly falls off, holding on to the girl by one wrist and the back of her shirt. “Everybody, stop fighting!”

An adult nearby calls out. “What’s going on?” Leaves rustle as they move toward the children.

The smaller boy, the one who’d started the argument, bolts at the sound of their approach. Still holding his stick, he vanishes into the undergrowth with scarcely a sound as the tall Silvan girl snarls behind him.

“Let him go, Tathareth,” Legolas says to his friend in an undertone, though he himself is scowling. “He’s littler than you.”

“That was so mean.” At the disappearance of her adversary, the Silvan girl’s face crumples as she starts to cry. “Why did he say that?”

“I dunno. He shouldn’t have said it. We’ll tell Himlach-istonor about it and the adults can scold him.” The Sinda boy changes the lay of his arms, laying his chin on her shoulder and giving her a hug. “But what he said wasn’t true, you know. It wasn’t your fault. And Súlhanar is okay, remember? He didn’t even fall all the way in, just poked it with his foot and fell over asleep. It wasn’t your fault.”

*

At the usual time, Thranduil sends his officials and staff home for the evening and makes his way toward his own family’s corners, tucked away in the northernmost quarter of the palace. That evening, his middle child seeks him out in his study, knocking on the door with a troubled look on his face.

“Ada?”

“Yes? Come in.”

Legolas looks anxious. “Are you busy?”

“Not too busy to speak with you, Legolas.” Thranduil turns around in his chair. “What troubles you?”

His son climbs up on the alcove seat the children have all seemed to favor for these types of conversations, putting his bare feet up on the cushion. “Irnion started a fight with Tathareth today. Or he tried to. I made her stop before she hit him. But what he said was really mean, Ada. Honestly, I wanted to hit him too.”

“What did he say?”

Thranduil listens as Legolas relates the tale of what had occurred, his heart growing heavy. He recognizes the name of the younger boy, and has some idea of why the child might be… troubled.

His son is looking at him. “Ada? Why did he say that? It felt like there was no reason.”

Thranduil takes a deep breath. “You were right, Legolas, when you said that it was wrong.” he says firmly. “Irnion should not have said that. It was cruel. As for the reason why he chose to say it… neither you nor I can truly know what was in his heart. That is only something he can know, and even knowing oneself is difficult.”

“But…?” Legolas prompts, seeming somehow as shrewd as he is innocent.

“Irnion’s surviving parent is of Noldorin heritage,” says Thranduil, meeting his son’s eyes steadily. “Many people believe that the Noldor are bad people.”

Slowly, his son nods. “They did the kinslaying. They killed lots of people in Doriath, and left little children in the forest to die.”

“Some people who happened to be Noldor did that, yes.” Thranduil nods.

“Uh-huh.” He can almost see the cogs turning. “So was Irnion’s parent a kinslayer?”

“Lairemírë is their name,” clarifies Thranduil. “There’s no way to know if they did anything bad or not. They came to our people with their parent, Irnion’s grandparent, seeking shelter. Their own kin wouldn’t take them in; they had nowhere to go. My adar, your grandfather Oropher, allowed them to stay, but many people were suspicious of them.”

“Because they thought they might be a kinslayer?”

“Yes, I think that is the reason for much of it.” Thranduil nods. “But people were even more suspicious of Lairemírë and their parent, because the reason they had nowhere else to go is that they were running away from Angband — have you learned about Angband yet?”

Legolas swings his bare feet in the air, looking thoughtful. “It was Morgoth’s fortress, right? But it’s under the ocean now. With Beleriand.”

“Yes, this was a great many years ago. Morgoth took many elves captive, and hurt them very badly. Sometimes he let them out of Angband, and they would be so afraid of him that they would do what he told them to do even if he wasn’t there to make them do it. Some of them hurt people. But some of them also did escape, and found that they weren’t welcome anywhere. Irnion’s grandparent was hurt very badly, and they hurt Lairemírë, his mother, in turn. Now…”

Thranduil sighs. “Now, I think that Irnion seems like a very troubled little boy. That in no way excuses what he said to your friend. That in no manner excuses his actions, however. I’ll have a word.”

*

News of the death of Anneryn Pengronhír comes creeping in on anxious feet, silver-pale as the moon, with lips as blue as winter frost. She comes slipping toward the palace, translucent eyes wide and worried, cradling a form in his arms that in the far south of Mirkwood, she recognized and knew.

Warriors of the realm nearly kill the orc in his company, though they stop when she screams. The king of the Woodland Realm will apologize later; but in the moment, when the news hits him, he is voiceless.

Thranduil does not think himself strong enough. He must be strong enough. He cannot fade from his children, who need him; he cannot fade from the realm of which he is king, which he has been struggling for years to piece back together in the wake of his father’s death.

He is not strong enough. He has no choice but to be strong enough.

His heart feels as though it has shattered in his chest.

*

There are strange tales to be found in the deepest, darkest places. Tales of spiders who greet the Firstborn as their neighbors, who spin their webs above the door-frames of the Second-born to keep out the scourge of disease. Along the North-South Road, one might even hear stories whispered round small campfires of the town which produces the best silk in all of Arda, where once a lonely spider-girl was adopted by an elderly childless couple. She is gone now, they say, but her descendants live on, producing an extraordinary silk that is as strong as it is delicate. They say that kings have worn it into battle; this gossamer is stronger than chainmail.

“To see a spider is a blessing,” some of these traveling merchants will say, and take great offense to see the uncivilized northwestern peoples chasing their blessings out with brooms or worse, squashing them with tableware. One who succeeds in regaining their trust after such a faux pas may hear this in explanation:

“Ah! I should not be so hasty to judge your people, for you simply do not know better, yes? My people once hated spiders, too. I am ashamed to think of it! —We drove them out, burned their webs, crushed them underfoot. So foolish we were! That is why our Spider-Lady hid herself when first she came — ah, so great was our hatred that she thought we would kill her, that even her own parents would drive her out and let her die. It is our shame, our shame that we gave her such reason to fear! But we know better now. She was very kind to all of us despite our hatred, and we learned to love her as our own.”

Is it true, one might ask?

Perhaps. Or, perhaps not. Perhaps it is not true at all; perhaps it is true in some ways; perhaps it is something kin to true enough.

Who could say, whisper the spiders as they skitter about the edges of the world with legs as graceful as any dancer’s — who could say? But those who wander the world’s edge will find that to these spiders, the answer is the same as the question. It is not for them to speak of certainty, they say, of things that are perfectly true: theirs is the web, the mystery, the Song that rises from every delicate thread to form Eä’s unending symphony.

Answers, for answers, an old spider might whisper, indulging a lost and weary traveler as her many children look on curiously from her back. Answers! So young you must be. If I had not so many children already I would let you climb upon my back, to learn the ways of the world and find your way in wisdom. Alas, I have not the space to carry you; and your body, though soft, would crush those of my little children. If you must have answers, I have heard that those who live may seek them from Death, and those that are dead may seek them from Life. I have lived for many years; I have found Death to be kind, and consider her a good friend. Perhaps it is so for you? For though you are very young, I think you are old in the reckoning of your people. I see the ages in your eyes, the weight of choices on your back.

If you would seek an audience with Death, the old mother spider might add, her children’s innumerable eyes glowing solemnly, Might I ask you, young one, for a kindness? My children are well-fed, but if you continue along this little-traveled path, you will come to a place where another mother cries her sorrows. Her webs are bare, and her children starve. It is the way of our people, that our children’s fathers give their lives so that the little ones may live; perhaps this you can understand, though our ways are not your own? But the father of these children, he fled so that he would live.

—No, I do not call it cowardice; I have told you, we do not seek answers as you do. But now his children starve, crying out in hunger, and their mother weeps. We have so many children, young one, so many to love — a thousand or more, and we know them, every one. Their father is gone, but you are here. If you mean to meet with Death this day, will you not be a father to them? We know the sacrifice we make of those we catch within our webs; we know it, and respect it, and we give their bodies to the earth so that their spirits may reach for the sky. Our children’s fathers we love and honor, and we believe that they are with us. Their spirits watch after the little ones as they grow, loving and loved, and as we grow old and die, they come with Death to guide us home.

I know that our ways are strange to you, and I cannot promise it will not hurt. Those children are very young, after all, and do not yet know how to make it quick; their mother is young too, and rather small, and was not quick enough to stop their father. But she loves her children desperately, with all the ferocity a mother can have — she will raise them well if they have the chance to grow up, and they will never forget you. They will love you, every one of them, and when the little ones grow old enough to leave their mother and make their own way, they will do so with courage, knowing that the strange two-legged father who chose them is still there watching over them.

Perhaps they will tell others of you. Perhaps tales will spread of the father who came on two legs, who loved our children as his own. Perhaps those tales will spread so far that they reach our kin who do not yet know the world’s ways; perhaps they will hear of it, and begin to regard your people with less fear and suspicion than they do. Perhaps that will happen; perhaps it will not. Who can say?

If you can believe in our traditions, then know you will be seen as one of us, and will be loved and welcomed as such when Death comes to you in her kindness. If you cannot, then simply know that you will be loved dearly by one sorrowful mother and more than a thousand little children.

—No, I would not compel you. My webs are full, my children fed. I have no need of you.

—Oh?

—Ah, I see. Yes, I know how to make it quick, for I have been a hunter for many years. No, I will not take you to her myself. Forgive me — you are very kind, and your fear is an understandable thing. But I will not do as you ask, because a mother’s desperation is a force stronger than many things: she would take what she could of my children, and myself as well if she could manage it. I would not see my children meet Death this day, nor would I leave them orphaned for charity.

It may hurt, young one. It may hurt very much. You may be frightened, and fear makes all p0ains more difficult to bear. I cannot promise you it will be kind, but I can promise that it would be kindness. Nor will it last forever — your fear and hurting both will end, and your children, if you choose them, will live.

If you mean to meet with Death this day, will you not do this mercy for them?

In the most complete account, the tale ends there — or so says the one who keeps the archives that exist at the end of the world. There may be other versions, but the one knows only what is written.

Should there be yet more? Is it not enough for your ears that this tale should end with a question?

So young you are. So young you will be. So like the young ones to imagine a story with an ending, or a question with an answer. Ai, ai… these ones change shifting sands for gold and think themselves the richer. You are telling me the sort of answer-thing you wished, and you are spinning me a tale I have read in ages past. I have told you what you seek — are you remembering? You have found it beyond this map; it will be in lands ruled by the sun.

*

Thranduil is a fool, a damned fool. One day he finds Legolas in the study, sitting on the window seat with one bare foot swinging absently as it hangs down, reading a heavy leather bound tome which looks very familiar, but difficult to place.

—Realization strikes, sharp as a shard of ice driven through his heart. There, etched in ink, are several faces he knows well. Anneryn, Alcarinna, his beloved, smiling like they did in life — and the portraits of their family around them. Not their family here in Mirkwood, but their blood relations.

Noldor.

It is not his son he sees for a moment. Not his son, in pain, seeking memory of his mother. Thranduil sees the sharp judgmental glances, the dark murmurings of kinslayer; the hints that his realm is better off without Anneryn Pengronhír, Alcarinna, his Anne, whose blood was that of a traitor and murderer.

He sees himself forced to defend his marriage, his family, his grief — that his heart lies in shattered pieces still — and in the madness of sorrow and terror, he tries to undo what has been done.

“Where did you get that?” Thranduil snaps at Legolas, and snatches the book from his fingers. His son’s face crumples before he flees, leaving his father standing alone.

*

They speak about it later that evening. Thranduil apologizes, or tries to — and he tries to explain.

His son sees his tears for a moment. It feels like failure. Thranduil has always tried not to let his children see him as anything but strong.

The hug lasts for a long time. Legolas sobs into his father’s shoulder, tears wetting the fabric of his robe, and whispers, “It’s not fair. It’s not fair. Nana never hurt anyone.”

Then, “I’ll never treat anyone like that. Ever. They’ll see. I’ll get them to know it’s wrong.”

It’s not that easy, Thranduil thinks. “It’s hard,” he says. He doesn’t know what to say.

*

*

“Ada,” Legolas says very quietly one evening over the dinner table, “I would like to invite my grandfather to spend the midsummer holidays with us.”

This time, Thranduil is more prepared for this conversation than he has been in the past. That’s an admittedly low threshold, true, but he’s seen this coming. He glances toward his son’s left shoulder, where — without permission, but in line with his character — Legolas now bears a delicately arched sprig of lilies of the valley.

Irnion had inked it onto him, of course. Thranduil isn’t sure he ever quite received the full story of how it happened, but some years after Anneryn’s passing to Mandos, his son came home one evening and announced his intent to bring a dear friend, not previously introduced, home for dinner.

When that friend turned out to be the same Sinda boy who’d shouted truly cruel words at another one of Legolas’ friends years before, Thranduil… well, he didn’t raise his eyebrows. That would have been unkind. He welcomed the child into his home — how can they all be so small, when they grow up so fast? — and did his best to smile, since by then he’d been told that his countenance and kingship were oft intimidating to children.

Afterward, he pulled Legolas aside and had a talk with his son. Thranduil feared the possibility of… forgetting his second-born, and Irnion appearing for dinner seemed to confirm that Thranduil had missed something. The thing was… Cúlalf, the crown prince(ss) with their mother’s dark hair and bright eyes, was coming out of the shell which Thranduil believes he himself had unknowingly pushed them into. He’d been hard on his eldest, feeling the weight of responsibility and the fear that he himself wouldn’t have time to teach his child everything they would need to know. Instead, what Thranduil had done was send Cúlalf the message that he wasn’t good enough. He’s been trying to belay his own message for years.

Legolas shrugs and laughs and speaks to Thranduil — just as usual. “Oh, that was years ago. I started talking to him. He’s funny, actually. I like him.”

Like-like, apparently. The two become thick as thieves, and even after their growing up leads them to grow apart, they’re still close to one another. One day, Thranduil is startled to see Irnion’s Noldo mother talking and laughing with one of the Silvan groundskeepers outside the palace.

Galdor declines the invitation on grounds Thranduil knows well. His father-in-law does not wish to make trouble for his family, for his grandchildren. Thranduil sees his son’s face fall.

He writes back to Galdor, stiff and formal though it is — Thranduil has never quite known how to speak to his father-in-law, though he’d made peace before wedding Anne. Thranduil all but instructs Galdor to extend an invitation to his grandchildren.

Alcarinna’s passing has been difficult for all of us, he writes, after dithering for longer than he ought about whether to use that name or Anneryn. My heart tells me that our children would benefit from knowing more about their mother.

I entreat you worry not as to political concerns, he eventually writes straightforwardly. The children are wise enough to know what matters ought to be spoken of in different types of company.

This is not entirely true, perhaps. Little Gilorn — a girl that day — is growing up. She’s becoming just as stubborn as Legolas, and twice as contrary — she’s the sort who might tell all and sundry about her mother’s heritage, and dare them to look crosswise at her. But, Thranduil notes to himself with pride, she does a rather good job of it. She has a fierce sense of justice. If that ends up causing complications… ah, well. That is their family’s matter to handle.

The invitation comes in summer. Thranduil knows he cannot go himself, but as he looks at his three children — crown princess Celeiris, no longer Cúlalf, tall and bright and showing herself to be one both eloquent and wise; Legolas, quietly stubborn and still possessed of his open heart; and Gilorn, a boy that day, a brilliantly loud iconoclast — he is not afraid to see them go.

He’s made many mistakes, but he’s done his best. He thinks they’ll be all right.