Chapter Text
Thranduil let out a burdened sigh. Nobody ever mentioned how much money a king had to deal with. A strange thought, perhaps. Of course kings had to deal with money. To expect anything less would be foolish. Politics was power, power was money, and money was boring on a good day.
Among his people and even his friends, there was a broad misconception that the Elvenking loved money. After all, he liked jewels and gold and all the beautiful things money could buy and was made of, but that was just it. Gems, jewelry, finery: they were all beautiful things that could be traded for and cherished. Those things had histories, memories, symbolism. Money itself, however, had always been among Thranduil's least favorite subjects. As a young ellon in Doriath, he excelled at history, literature, music, and rhetoric. Even the dry philosophical writings of the Noldor were bearable, but economics bored him to death. Yet, whether he liked it or not, the strange politics of money demanded the vast majority of Thranduil’s time, at least these days.
So it was that he found himself in his study at what must have been half-past the third hour of the morning, mulling over some dispute over textile taxes that his advisors insisted required his attention for some Vala-be-damned reason. Thranduil went to take another sip of his tea, only to find the clay cup empty. It was a strange vessel for a king to drink from. From afar, it more resembled a pile of leaves and mud than a cup. It was a lumpy bowl-like thing painted with streaks of green. A child’s masterpiece. If that fact was not apparent in the general craftsmanship, the vivid imprint of a toddler’s palm confirmed it. Thranduil’s thumb traced over the crater of the handprint as he started back up at the top of the page, trying this time to pay more attention as he read. His attempts were in vain, however, as a loud knock came at the door.
“Hervenn-nin, it is well past the time of sleep. Even for a king.”
Thranduil did not bother looking up. He listened to the shift of fabric and soft footsteps and waited for someone to drop their arms around his shoulders and to press a kiss to the top of his head. His wife’s dark hair fell down to tickle the sides of his face, smelling faintly of the forest after a summer storm, earthy and cool. A bit sweet, somehow.
“Your son wants you to tell him a story,” she said, her face still buried in his hair.
Thranduil started, shifting slightly so that he could look at his wife. Even if he had greatly misjudged the time, the heavy promise of sleep creeping into Meluind’s gaze meant that it must have been ridiculously late, even for his son.
“He should be asleep.”
Meluind murmured a soft agreement, kissing him this time on the forehead.
“You and I both know Legolas rarely does what he should.”
Thranduil’s thumb passed again over the smooth handprint, taking more care this time to feel the grooves and imperfections.
“He’s a good boy.”
“He is. Very much so. But he refuses to sleep, and I’ve told him just about every story I can remember. We’ve gone through half a pot of lurelend tea. I even tried to tell him the story of how Galantir got a fishing hook stuck in his arm. He insists that you tell it better, and I told him it was because I was not actually there when it happened.” Meluind stopped her story to come around the other side of the desk, sweeping the papers aside and dropping down so she could look up at Thranduil with wide eyes and a pout, hands folded under her chin. “And he gives me a look, just like this, and tells me that if I do not go get his father to tell him the story, he will positively, absolutely lose… his… mind.”
Thranduil laughed, both at the accuracy of the impression and the image in his mind of a tiny elfling throwing himself back on the pillows as he finished that last word. He could imagine the scene as clear as if it were happening before his eyes if not only for the fact that Legolas really did look like a mirror of his mother.
“And what kind of mother would I be if I let that happen, hm?” Meluind finished, now unable to keep the mirth from her voice.
Thranduil let out a small puff of air and shook his head.
“You are a good mother, whatever you do.” Thranduil paused, taking her hand. “The best.”
Meluind raised his hand slowly, kissed the knuckle where he wore his wedding ring, and then quickly as she had entered, rose to stand and placed her hands on her hips.
“Well, best mother or not, I do have to insist that you go tell your son his story before he finds his way out of bed and harasses some poor guard.”
“Ai, Meluind, these should’ve been signed by this morning, and I have a meeting tomorrow with your father and the other chiefs—”
“I’ll take care of it. I know my adar head-to-boot, and to be honest, I’m not sure you can tell Dwarvish coin from that of Esgaroth.”
“Estimating me a bit harshly, love?”
“A little, perhaps.” Meluind leaned over and kissed Thranduil again before pulling him out of his chair. “Now, go. Legolas won’t wait forever.”
With his wife’s promise to finish reading over the letter and debrief him in the morning—fair enough considering she had far more patience with economic matters than he did—Thranduil slipped out into the hallway. The guard standing watch over his family’s quarters that night was Aldinen, one of the younger sentinels. Aldinen was a good-natured ellon who often accompanied Legolas to the bathroom at night when his parents were too tired to notice him squirming around, though neither Thranduil nor Meluind knew of these ventures.
The sentinel bowed as Thranduil entered.
“Does the young lord stay in his keep?” Thranduil asked.
“I believe so, Your Highness,” Aldinen said. “He’s been singing something every now and again.”
“Is it any good?”
Aldinen smiled, raising his brows as he did so.
“I would not be calling on Iluvatar’s Maia any time soon, but I’ve enjoyed hearing it.”
“A fair summary. I can always trust you to be just.”
Aldinen bowed his head again. “Yes, my lord.”
“Good night, Aldinen.”
“Good night, Your Highness.”
Thranduil knocked on the doorframe when he entered his son’s room. It was an offshoot of Thranduil and Meluind’s chambers, with a heavy wooden door adjoining the two that offered their little elfling a quick way to escape nightmares and loud thunder but could be closed off for privacy as the prince grew into adulthood. Legolas spun around at the knock, a mess of brown hair and the dozens of knit animal companions he shared his bed with. Thranduil couldn’t imagine that it was comfortable, but Legolas insisted on sleeping with every doll.
“Ada! You came!”
Legolas bounced up and down on his knees, his bright smile revealing a missing tooth on his bottom row that he’d lost in an apple-related incident two nights before.
“Of course I did,” Thranduil said, walking over to ruffle his son’s hair.
His fingers snagged on thick tangles in a few places, despite how short Legolas’ hair was. The boy was at that age now where he insisted he attend to every task himself, no matter how well he could do it. He had also taken to imitating his parents whenever he could, and that day, he’d chosen to attempt to replicate his mother’s plaits. “I heard you refuse to go to sleep, my little leaf.” Legolas just stared up at him.
“You look tired,” Thranduil said, shedding his formal outer robe and boots before climbing onto the bed.
As soon as he sat down, Legolas scrambled to sit on his father’s stomach, curling himself in a little ball. His hand still clutched one of the soft animals. Thranduil thought it might be a toad, but he couldn’t actually tell.
“I am tired,” Legolas agreed, “but I need stories.”
“You had stories. Many of them, if I’m to believe your mother.”
“Yes, but I’ve already heard all naneth’s stories before, and the one's she stole from Uncle. I want you to tell me one.”
“Hmmmmm. If I tell you a story, will you let me comb your hair?”
Legolas thought about it for a moment before holding up his maybe-toad. He pushed his nose against the wool creature and scrunched up his face, talking to the thing in confidence, pretending he wasn’t digging his elbow directly into his father’s spleen as he did so.
“What do you think, Lord Hedgehog?”
Ah. A hedgehog.
Legolas nodded a few times exaggeratedly, as was his way, and then scratched his chin.
“Ada, Lord Hedgehog and I agreed that if you want to comb my hair and make me go to sleep, that is…” Legolas held up two fingers, nearly sticking them in Thranduil’s eyes “... that is two things, so you have to tell me two stories.”
“Ai-ya, Legolas, do you know how late it is?”
“I do not. I cannot read clocks.” He said it as if it was the gravest matter in the world.
“To be quite honest with you, I do not know the exact time either. It is late, though. Very late. So how about I tell you one story, and in the morning I can tell you another one over breakfast?”
Legolas convened with the hedgehog again before letting out a long sigh.
“I suppose that would be alright.”
“Thank Eru. You know, I must say Lord Hedgehog seems a great deal more reasonable than Lady Newt,” Thranduil said, recalling an episode a few nights ago.
“Oh, yes. Lady Newt gets very cranky about desserts.”
“I see.”
Thranduil settled back onto the pillows. Legolas flopped over to wrap his arms around his father. He held onto more of his baby fat than the other elflings his age, but Thranduil never really worried about that much, especially when it meant such soft cuddles. The night was quiet enough that Thranduil thought he could hear a thunderstorm, far off, above their sequestered cavern rooms. He realized suddenly how long it had been since he’d truly gotten fresh air in his lungs, but Legolas pulling on his hair did not leave much time to dwell on that.
“Ach, what are you doing that for?”
“My story,” Legolas said as if he couldn’t believe his father dared forget.
“Right, right. Now what sort of a story could I possibly tell you that your naneth could not tell better?”
The answer was not in the bold half-yelling Legolas usually opted for. No, this time when the elfling spoke, it was almost timid, expecting to be denied. Without really meaning to, he tugged nervously on his father’s hair that had gone so long unbraided.
“Can you tell me about Doriath?”
If the words stung Thranduil, he tried not to let it show.