Chapter Text
It was not a week and a half later when a delegation from the Greenwood arrived in Gondor.
There was little to discuss, really, besides the extermination of a few odd roving Orcs and the relocation of a handful of Elven refugees from either Lothlorien or Rivendell who would not or could not live there without the old leadership. The Elvenking had opened his doors without hesitation to them, but some were headed south to Gondor to settle in Lady Arwen’s lands, and a few more were trying to make it to the Havens to see if they could get one more boat to the Lonely Island, or Valinor, or anywhere, really. Aragorn, who was nearly an honorary Elf, had thrust himself into the center of the issue.
There was an unstated purpose, too, and that was celebration. The Elvenking had privately made his desire to drink a toast to the health of Gondor in the halls of its King quite clear in their private correspondences. He had stated that, and Aragorn had not been able to dissuade him of this, he would bring a barrel of genuine Elven unwatered wine, a gift to Aragorn, as well as something he himself loved.
Despite all of their preparations, it was still something akin to a shock when Aragorn’s stable boy shyly tiptoed into his throne room and asked, in a meek voice, if they had proper facilities to accommodate an elk.
It took him a moment to respond properly. “... I… believe we have a larger stall at the end… will it fit in that?”
“I can try, my lord, but this is the Elvenking’s royal elk, and I’d rather not offend him…”
“Let me see.” He rose off his throne, bustling out of the castle to the stable. An Elf, dressed in simple garb, held an elk by a set of reins. Its antlers were nearly brushing against the sides of the largest stall. “... That is a beautiful beast,” he murmured.
“It is my King’s,” nodded the plainly-dressed Elf, shaking the dark hair from his eyes.
“So you are…?”
“His closest servant.” The strange Elf bowed. “Galion, child of Greenwood and servant of the Elvenking, at your service.”
“Galion. I am King Elessar. Pleased to receive you.”
Galion bowed deeply. “My lord.”
“I apologize deeply for my lack of proper accommodations. I did not know His Majesty would be coming on an elk.” He gently stroked the elk’s nose. “The end-stall may be able to hold him, but it would be tight.” He leaned in. “I am so sorry, my friend. I did not intend any upset.”
“Thank you,” murmured Galion. He led the elk into the stall.
“Can you care for him?”
“Yes, and I have two others on the way with more supplies.”
Aragorn’s eyes widened slightly. “On elk?”
Galion chuckled slightly. “Fortunately not. Only the Elvenking and his line have elk. We ride horses, same as you, same as everyone.”
A sigh of relief escaped his lips. “Oh, thank the Valar. I can barely fit one in my stables.”
“I am so sorry, my lord, but my King only rides the one elk…”
“No, it is not your fault. I must meet your King now. ‘Tis a pleasure, Galion.”
“No, truly, the pleasure is mine,” Galion bowed, “My good King Elessar.”
Aragorn swept from the stables, returning to his throne.
Arwen, whose throne, right by Aragorn’s side, had been the first thing he had commissioned as King, turned to him. “... An elk?”
“Well, it was a new animal to add to my list of Creatures Pet, at least.”
“... I was not aware you had one of those.”
“I do.”
She smiled and shook her head. “I love you.”
Aragorn grinned. “I love you too.”
A moment later, the doors of the throne room opened. Galion entered first, a bit of hay stuck in his hair. “Presenting the Elvenking, my lord!”
He moved aside. A tall ellon with golden hair and a crown of wildflowers stepped in. His robes glittered with shimmering white jewels, making them look like water flowing over his body, lithe and graceful. His footsteps were silent as he moved. Even in a foreign land, a good two days’ ride from home, he radiated confidence, power and grace.
“... My lord,” Aragorn managed. “Welcome to Gondor. I hope it finds you well.”
He bowed. “King Thranduil of the Greenwood. Lovely city you have here. Beautifully kept.”
“Thank you. I cannot take all the credit, but thank you.”
Thranduil studied him. “And to who else do you accredit these accomplishments, if not yourself?”
“Well, there is my lady, Arwen of Rivendell, daughter of Elrond.” He gestured to her.
Thranduil bowed to her. “Pleased to meet you, daughter of Rivendell. We have met before, if you will remember, but it has been a long time.”
“You and my father held council together, once upon a time,” Arwen replied, “when I was just a little girl.”
Thranduil smiled. “I am pleased that you remember. You have grown fair and strong, my lady.”
“Thank you, your highness.”
Aragorn nodded. “Pleased to know that you two are acquainted. I have a few more advisors of note. Faramir is my good advisor and steward. His wife, Eowyn, was raised among royalty of the Horse-Lords of Rohan. Then there are Gimli of Erebor and Legolas of your realm--”
“Legolas? Legolas the Lighthearted and Lightfooted?”
“... Both of those things could describe him, yes.”
“Yellow-headed, fond of wearing a tunic and leggings, calls everyone younger than him a child?”
“Yes, yes and yes.”
“He is here?” Shock crossed Thranduil’s face.
“Yes, why? Is that strange? Do you know him?”
“... You could say that, yes. Can you take me to him?”
Aragorn shifted. “Well… yes, but he is resting. He sustained an injury and he is recovering in sickbed--”
“Take me to him.” Then, he seemed to compose himself slightly. He cleared his throat. “I am sorry, but will you please take me to him while you describe his injury?”
“I can do that.” Aragorn rose off of his throne. “Come.”
Thranduil turned to Galion. “Make yourself useful and please put my things in the room that the serving-girl showed us to, please.” He followed Aragorn from the throne room into a small, quiet back hall. “Thank you, my lord.”
“You are welcome. Legolas suffered a broken leg and three injured ribs--one broken, two cracked, all healing nicely--about one and a half weeks ago. He is on bed rest and is not to walk far. Gimli was watching him when I could not, but he has since gone home to Erebor--his father needed him. The court physician watches him now. He is not fading, but it will be one to three fortnights before he is fully hale.
“If I may ask, how do you know Legolas?”
There was silence.
“... He is my son,” Thranduil finally replied.
Aragorn pursed his lips. “... Of course.”
Thranduil’s shoulders sagged. Aragorn could feel the guilt radiating from him, and suddenly knew that Thranduil knew that he knew that Thranduil had been cruel.
When they arrived, Aragorn poked his head in. “Legolas? Are you awake?”
Legolas was propped up in bed, seemingly lightly dozing. “... Aragorn, mellon-nin?”
“... You have a visitor. Are you awake enough to receive one?”
“... The draught makes me tired and warm… it makes me want to sleep.”
“Can you stay awake long enough to receive a visitor?”
Legolas blinked. “... For a moment or two, perhaps.”
Aragorn stepped out of the way, beckoning for Thranduil to enter. Thranduil stepped in, slowly, as non-threateningly as he could manage. “... Ion-nin.”
A storm of emotions--sorrow, fear, pain, weariness--flickered over Legolas’s face. “... My lord.”
They studied each other for a moment. Finally, Thranduil deflated, sinking to the floor at the foot of Legolas’s bed, his glittering robes pooling around him. “... I am so, so terribly sorry, my beautiful son.”
“... You hurt me,” Legolas murmured numbly. “You hurt me. You told me I was a disgrace. That hurts, my lord.”
Thranduil bit his lip, emotion bubbling up through his normally cold facade. “I was drunk and miserable and I took it out on you. I do not deserve your forgiveness for hurting you like this.” He wiped his eyes. “I am so sorry.”
“Why were you so miserable? Because I live now in Gondor and not in the Greenwood?”
Thranduil's Adam's apple bobbed. "There were... so many dead. Elves and men and dwarves. Comrades and friends. It burned me to see." He shook his head. I am sorry. You did not deserve to suffer for my grief.”
“I am glad you can see that, my lord.”
Thranduil blinked tears from his eyes. He bowed his head. “I am so… my babe, I… I…”
“Hold me.”
Thranduil started. “What?”
“Hold me. Put your arms around me and hold me like you did when I was tiny. I need it. I need you.” He held out his arms. “Ada-nin.”
“My leaf…!” Thranduil’s voice broke and he dashed to Legolas’s side. He lay down beside him, putting his arms around him. “My poor, sweet little leaf!”
Legolas tucked his head under Thranduil’s chin, snuggling in. “Le melin, Ada-nin.”
“Le melin, ion-nin!” Thranduil responded, his voice breaking. “Le melithon anuir, ion-nin! My baby!” He draped his own glittering robes over Legolas, covering him.
Thranduil’s scent filled Legolas’s nose, sharp as cold running water, with something sweet underneath like Legolas’s own honeysuckle scent. His heartbeat, constant as the changing of the tides, reverberated into Legolas’s side. Legolas melted into the warmth, the comfort, the safety that Thranduil provided.
“I am so sorry,” Thranduil murmured. “Again. Your friendship with a Dwarf is no reason for punishment. I am so, so sorry.”
“So you are not mad?”
“No longer am I mad, my little leaf.” He moved a little, just enough to place a kiss on Legolas’s brow. “I was blind drunk when I lashed out at you. Galion told me what I did after I sobered up. I cried for hours.”
“So you will never do it again?”
“No. No, never.” Kisses rained over Legolas’s brow, his cheek, his chin, his nose, his hairline. “No, babe, I will not.”
A few tears dripped from Legolas’s eyes. Forgiveness crushed against the hurting part of his chest, the weight of his father’s soul, all of its pain and torment and rage and warmth and love, so much love he felt it would crush him if he let it. “Oh, Dad, thank you. You are the best dad ever.”
“The sheer fact that you have said that is proof I am not what you speak.” Thranduil shook his head.
“I am willing to bury the hatchet if you never do it again.”
“You are a better son than I could ever hope to have.”
Legolas lay in Thranduil’s arms for another moment, letting the comforting warmth of his father fill him. “Ada,” Legolas finally half-giggled, half-murmured. “The draught makes me tired, Ada.”
“What do you mean, ‘draught’? What did you take?” He turned to see Aragorn still leaning against the doorframe. “What did you give him?”
Aragorn suddenly realized that Thranduil didn’t know he spoke fluent Sindarin. “A draught, to encourage healing and numb pain. It has a bit of a few things in there: a bit of poppy-sap, for the pain; a bit of kingsfoil, for the spirit. Those are the main ingredients, there are a few other things. ‘Tis the sap that makes one sleepy.”
“Poppy sap!” Thranduil recoiled. “Is his pain that terrible?”
“Well, he broke two ribs. He told me the pain would end him.”
Thranduil shook his head. “Do not let him get sick off of it.”
“I never would,” nodded Aragorn.
Thranduil stroked Legolas’s cheek, his hair. Legolas was already slipping into sleep. The adoration in Thranduil’s eyes was plain to see. “I am very proud of you, ion-nin. So very, very proud.”
“... Le melin,” Legolas whispered again, on the edge of sleep.
Thranduil watched for a moment. Finally, he sighed and shook his head. “... He is my only child. I have no other kin left. I was an only child myself. My own parents are gone to Mandos, as is his mother.” His voice broke slightly. “He is my only kin. I cannot lose him.”
Aragorn’s eyes softened. “I am so sorry, my lord, because I cannot relate. I have no children of my own, not yet, but Arwen is trying fervently. I suspect it shan’t be long.”
“You have my blessing.” Thranduil’s eyes were intense. “I believe fatherhood would suit you. More than it suits me, anyway.”
“... Thank you. I am truly humbled, my lord.”
Thranduil nodded. “Now, if I am allowed, may I tuck in my little one here? Then we can discuss official business.”
“Of course you may.” Aragorn bowed.
Graceful, slim hands drew soft, thick velvet and knitted blankets around Legolas’s shoulders. One last kiss on Legolas’s brow and Thranduil stood up, turning around. “I am deeply sorry, I just… I needed to apologize. And hold ion-nin. I would surely have fallen dead if I had not been allowed to. Seeing him wounded...” His voice broke. “... knowing I hurt him…”
“I do not begrudge you anything. Take a breath, it will help.”
Thranduil took a deep breath. “Thank you, my lord.”
“You are always welcome. Now, come. Let us return to official business.”
“Of course, my king.”