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There’s a small sense of terror when Legolas first opens his eyes, but it’s quickly swamped in an overwhelming relief. For a moment, all Thranduil can do is breathe, having held it in and feared the worst. Legolas’ little body, reduced to that of a small child no bigger than Thranduil’s legs, curls up in his lap and clings to the long hair that slithers over his armour. Thranduil, holding his son protectively against himself, asks gently, “How are you feeling?”
Legolas blinks up at him, then mumbles, “Funny.” His eyebrows knit together cutely, his cheeks pouting in a way he hasn’t done for decades. It’s immediately clear that whatever dark spell took away the years from Legolas’ body also took it from his mind. Perhaps, Thranduil wonders, the magic was meant to kill, to scale back time until nothing was left, but elves are long lived enough to come through. He could, himself, be centuries younger and not, at first, tell any difference. He has no mirror with him, and the skin along his hands looks as smooth as ever. All their supplies where on their horses, which, like the rest of Thranduil’s hunting guard, are back above the barrier.
The two of them are at the bottom of a shallow ravine, cut out of the earth like a gaping mouth, trying to swallow them whole. The purple-black mist that swirls above them is too thick to penetrate, though somehow, they fell through in the first place, changed as they were. An evil spell, evidently, though Thranduil has no idea from whom or where it came, or even how long it’s existed, hidden in the depths of his forest. When his guards manage to free him, one way or another, he will find whoever’s responsible, and he will make that person pay dearly, both for trespassing on his land and for the crime against his son.
Legolas looks frightened, more so than he ever could as an adult. For one sickening moment, Thranduil is worried that he’ll cry. But then he only asks, voice small and wavering, “Where are we?”
“The forest,” Thranduil assures him. “Our horses stumbled, and we were thrown into a pit of... magic.” Thranduil neglects to mention that it is, quite clearly, dark magic, because there is no sense in worrying little Legolas, who already looks so fretfully vulnerable. To soothe him, Thranduil brushes a hand back through his long hair, still a light yellow and soft, reaching down over his shoulders to mimic Thranduil’s own. The braids that he often wears are still weaved behind his ears, though in miniature version, like all of him. He wore his hair the same way when he was this age, if Thranduil remembers correctly.
He used to ask Thranduil often to braid it, but Thranduil was always busy with one thing or another—the duties of running a kingdom, mostly—and the little prince was left to the attentions of his maids. Legolas never asks Thranduil to do his hair anymore, and that does bring Thranduil a soft pang of regret. It’s just one of many areas with his son where he’s let his pride and distance diminish their connection.
Legolas seems to remember none of those years of being too far apart. He leans up and asks, full of hope and trust, “You can fix it though, can’t you, Daddy?”
Thranduil hasn’t been called that in years. His chest tightens, and he explains, “I have tried. But my first concern was you.”
“Oh,” Legolas whispers, shrinking back down. “I’m sorry.” And he does, indeed, look far too sorry for a child with his father. He moves to try and clamber out of Thranduil’s lap, but Thranduil, overcome with a wave of defense and fear, holds him firmly down. There’s no telling what could come through the barrier, and whatever other ways he may have failed as a father, he never intended to let Legolas come to any harm. With the woods as they are now, he wouldn’t have taken Legolas out this young. He’ll just have to protect Legolas until this is over, and then, until they can find some wizard that can undo the spell.
And that brings a new wave of anxiety; what if he can’t? How long will he be stuck with a small child, one that he didn’t raise very well the first time and still doesn’t know how to? And he’s alone, now with no interest in anyone else who could step in as a second parent. Legolas’ early maids have all since retired, and there is no one in Thranduil’s current court fit to nurse a child. The duty will be his and his alone.
Even now, he’s fumbling, and he says too belatedly, consumed as he was by his thoughts, “It is not your fault.”
“But you’re stuck with me,” Legolas sniffs, too moody for an Elven heir.
It takes Thranduil a minute to gather the words. “Legolas,” he coaxes, laying a hand on his son’s shoulder and turning that little face to look up at him. “I enjoy spending time with you.” Legolas’ eyes widen.
“But you don’t spend time with me often,” he says. It’s painfully true.
“It is... hard... for me,” Thranduil tries to explain. But there is no way to explain his feelings and responsibilities to a child. He doesn’t know where Legolas is in his life, what he remembers, but Thranduil can think of plenty of times, only recently, where events came to pass they could’ve spent together, could’ve talked more, and didn’t. Finally, he carefully words, “You are going to grow into a handsome prince, one regal and befitting of a crown. And you will be as stoic as I, and with my stubbornness...” Thranduil shakes his head, sighing, “Someday, you won’t wish to spend much time with me.”
“That’s not true,” Legolas insists. His hands clench into tiny fists as he leans towards Thranduil, saying, almost desperately, “You’re my father. I need you. I’ll always love you and want you around!” There’s so much conviction in his words that Thranduil doesn’t have the heart to argue.
So he only bends forward, encasing Legolas in a warm, firm hug. He hasn’t hugged Legolas in years. Far, far too long. Even small as he is, Legolas clings so very tightly to him, full of all the love that seeped away from them.
Holding his son against his chest, Thranduil quietly promises, “I do love you, Legolas. I will always love you.”
And then the world changes around him, and he’s gasping, even as he pulls Legolas tighter against him to protect from the explosion of the mist. It scatters everywhere into little tiny clouds, glinting as the light of the day slices through it, down through the branches of the forest that tower above, along the edges of the ravine. Thranduil looks up into the open air, all the magic gone.
Horses and guards immediately appear at the edge, looking over, and Tauriel calls at their head, “Are you alright, my king?”
Thranduil means to say yes, though he is stunned. But Legolas announces instead, “We are fine.” His voice is deep and loud, and Thranduil takes a moment to look at him: he’s tall again, grown, the man Thranduil left to hunt with, on the first trip they’ve taken together in over a decade. Apparently just realizing he’s still sprawled in Thranduil’s lap, Legolas’ cheeks turn a faint pink, and he scrambles out. They sit apart, watching one another, as the other elves wait for instructions.
A silent understand passes through them, and Thranduil nods first. He meant every word he said, and he won’t forget this experience soon. It was one of learning. He has let himself fail in his duties as a father. But they have a long time ahead of them, and it isn’t too late to try to mend.
Legolas offers a hand and helps Thranduil to his feet.