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“Ada, come. Tell it again.” The freshly bathed and bound for bed elfling pushed a damp lock of hair off his forehead and grabbed his father’s hand, pulling the elder to his feet and moving him toward the nursery.
“Must it always be this story, ion nin?”
With a serious expression, the miniature of his father’s, the child replied as he climbed into the bed, “It is the best one. Why would I hear a lesser tale?”
Sighing, Thranduil climbed in after his child, giving the little one a cuddle despite the tedium of his request. “They say Beleg the Archer was ageless, that he Awoke in the light of the stars. He was the best of warriors, this marchwarden of Doriath, and he wielded the sword Anglachel and the bow Belthronding. One day, he—“
Legolas interrupted, “The bow, Ada. Tell me about his bow.”
Brushing a kiss over the crown of his little warrior's head, Thranduil sighed and continued. “Belthronding was made of a black yew wood, strung with bear sinew, and none but Beleg knows the draw-strength, as it could only be drawn by Beleg’s might….”