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The candle wick had almost burnt out on the desk of the Elvenking of Mirkwood. It was the early hours of the morning, yet Thranduil could not sleep. Instead he slaved away through paper after paper of trade agreements, military strategies and the financal figures for the last season of the year. In truth, Thranduil probably could have left this all until morning, but during these early hours, there was a distinct quiet calmness that allowed for the Elvenking to enjoy no interruptions to these mundane tasks. He relished the feeling of knowing his realm was sleeping peacefully whilst he kept everything moving along behind the scenes. He had always felt like their true protector in these moments, though he was well aware that it was the warriors at the stationed posts in the forest that were doing the main work of keeping his citizens safe.
When Thranduil had grown, it had been known as the Greenwood. His father, King Oropher, had been in charge and had completed the exact same mundane tasks as he was assigned to right that moment. The trees had been plump, varying shades of green and healthy. They sang to him every morning, and the woodland creatures found ways to visit the little Prince of Greenwood as he rushed happily through his joyous forest as though it was one large playground. Sometimes it made Thranduil sad that his son could not enjoy that peaceful, prosperous and carefree childhood that he had experienced.
Unfortunately Prince Legolas had been an anomaly, and unlike his elven kin, he had been born during a tumultuous spring when the greenleaves had emerged upon the now-diseased forest. The attacks on the outlying villages were getting more ferocious and vicious with every strike. The fortress of Dol Guldur was filling up with the spawn of Mordor. There had been numerous fatalities during one particular stand-off with an orc pack that had successfully managed to hatch spiders amongst the trees, and since that moment his forest had become infested with the beasts. His wife had struggled throughout the entire pregnancy with her health, and in the end the toll on her fea had been fatal. Thranduil had experienced the worst year of his life in the time she was pregnant, both as a King and a husband. Yet what emerged from their bond could not have been more different.
Legolas was a charming elfling. He was sweet-natured and well-mannered – a complete light that shone throughout the darkening forest. There was not a single elf in Mirkwood who did not wish he were their son. Most doted upon him, sneaking him treats from the kitchen pantry and cultivating a private garden for him in which he could play safely under the watchful eyes of his personal guard. Many had put their names forward to protect the Prince, and many had been disappointed when only the best of the best had been chosen. Still, nonetheless, Legolas was the embodiment of his mother’s kind spirit and a glorious doppelganger of his father.
Although lost in his paperwork, Thranduil’s sharp eyes caught the movement of the door-handle to his personal study. It was clear that something was attempting to move it, but for a moment Thranduil had assumed that it was only a trick of the flickering light that was dying in the candle beside him. Whatever it was could not open the heavy oak door. Instead there came a voice through the thick wood that Thranduil would have most certainly missed had he not been an elf.
“Ada?”
Thranduil arose from behind his elegantly carved wooden desk, and opened the door to see his small elfling standing in the moonlight with his crocheted stuffed oliphaunt tucked under his arm. He was so young that he did not even reach Thranduil’s waist – a toddler, perhaps, in the eyes of men but his language was far more advanced than that of the Adan. Affectionately, Thranduil scooped up his elfling in one swoop, and carried him back to his desk chair, resting his son upon his knee.
“Could not sleep, little leaf?” he asked, observing his son in the candlelight and noticing that his cheeks were particularly rosy.
“I don’t feel well, Ada,” Legolas replied softly, leaning into his father’s strong chest.
Frowning slightly at his son’s confession, Thranduil placed the back of his hand upon Legolas’ forehead to take his temperature. He was feverish, though his eyes looked bright and alert. It was at that moment that it suddenly dawned on Thranduil what it may be.
Throughout every elfling’s development, they reached a point at which their immune system strengthened to allow them to be impervious to illness. In order to become so, an elfling had to suffer from Elven Sickness in order to build the correct resistance to any disease he or she may face in later life. It was something that Thranduil had almost completely forgotten about. He had endured it so long ago, and with no brothers or sisters or other sons and daughters to remind him, he had all but forgotten that it had existed. Quietly, Thranduil hugged his little leaf closer, rocking him gently in his arms. It was nothing to be alarmed about. In a few days’ time, his elfling would be right as rain again.
He placed a gentle kiss on the top of Legolas’ soft blonde head. “It is ok, little leaf. You can stay with Ada for a while.”
The tasks for the rest of this evening lay forgotten upon his desk as he rocked his elfling gently to sleep. It did not take long for Legolas to feel comforted in the arms of his father, and soon he had fallen into a deep healing slumber, tightly clutching his oliphaunt in one hand and his father’s robes in the other. Thranduil cherished these moments with Legolas. He was all that he had left on Arda in terms of family. Most had died, but a few – his mother, in particular – had sailed West a long time ago. He wondered vaguely whether his father had ever rocked him to sleep, but Thranduil could not recall it. That was not to say it had not happened, but just that his memories of his father were vastly different to how he wished for Legolas to remember him should the worst ever happen.
Softly, Thranduil hummed a lullaby. Nothing special. Nothing that tuneful, either. Yet it was there as a comfort and no more than that. His little leaf seemed to enjoy it.
“Perhaps we should both retire for the night,” the Elvenking murmured to himself more than to Legolas.
When he had blown the light out from the candle, Thranduil rose slowly from his seat, tenderly cradling his son in order not to wake him. Legolas adjusted well to the movement, clutching around his Ada’s neck and rest his head upon his shoulder. Although these moments were touching and between father and son, Thranduil was still followed at a distance by his ever-watchful guard. He was aware of them always, but practised enough at being followed around to know that they would never intrude on any of his moments with Legolas unless necessary.
Eventually, the King reached his vast chambers and placed his son under the sheets of his grand four-poster bed and tucking the oliphaunt under his chin. For a moment, Legolas looked tiny in such an enormous bed rather than his own child’s one. Thranduil had remembered how when he was even tinier than he was now, he would often keep his baby close just to know that he was safe. There was now an immense emptiness in his bed as he slept alone. There was no wife to fill the other side anymore. Yet, he mused, there was plenty of room for Legolas. It would be no trouble at all to share it.
When he finally extinguished the last candle on the bedside table, Thranduil kissed Legolas goodnight and checked his temperature one last time for good measure. The movement had caused Legolas to wake slightly from his slumber.
“Ada?” he asked uncertainly, cuddling his oliphaunt close.
“It is me, Legolas,” he whispered, stroking his son’s hair that was a mirror of his own. “Try to go to sleep. I am here, should you wake.”
Legolas nodded, snuggling down beneath the pillows. “I know what I want to call my oliphaunt,” he said, holding the stuffed crocheted toy aloft in Thranduil’s face.
“And what is that?” The king asked, moving it politely out of the way.
“Elrond,” Legolas replied, yawning. “I like that name.”
Before Thranduil had much else to say, his son was asleep again. He could not help but crack a smile in the darkness at the thought of informing the Lord of the Last Homely House that his son had named his toy oliphaunt after him. He let out a soft chuckle, continuing to stroke his son’s hair in fluid movements, and thinking to himself that he would get some medicine for him in the morning to bring down his fever, before drifting off into a much-needed sleep beside his beloved elfling.