The sound of boyish laughter and excitement was prominent on the large training field as their weaponry lesson came to an end and teachings of swordplay and fighting manoeuvres were replaced with the prospect of an afternoon swim in the forest lake or some long awaited tree climbing. In the moment that the instructor dismissed them, every student dropped their wooden practice weapons into a haphazard pile and began the discreet departure that they were all slowly perfecting. None of them wanted to be selected by their teacher to help tidy the equipment away and carry it back to the army headquarters, not when the sun was shining so brightly above them. As always, though, he had his victims chosen out and their names ready on his lips. As he called out and gestured for them to return, he saw the slump of small shoulders and disappointed expressions as they resigned themselves to their fate. He quickly hid a smile. Little boys were all the same.

Four young elflings appearing to be no more than seven or eight mortal years old crossed the field with their hands raised to hide their mouths and the hushed conversation that was clearly passing between them. The ringleader seemed to be the only blond present, although that was not a surprise, considering his position in the forest. The only child of the king, he was not accustomed to being held up when there was somewhere else he would rather be. His deep blue eyes were narrowed in thought, and the weapons master took silent note of that. If a sulky child needed to be corrected, he was more than happy to cure them of bad manners or a dark mood, whether they were his king's son or not.

"Thank you for coming back so eagerly," the instructor said, his sarcasm not lost on the youngsters.

"We came when you called, Faeron," the blond haired boy retorted.

"You came after some deliberation, Prince Thranduil," Faeron corrected sternly. "Don't let it happen again. Now, if you four work together we can get this done swiftly. I am sure you have plans to go swimming or for some similar activity this afternoon. Collect the practice weapons and carry them carefully to the barracks, where we will do a quick inventory and put them away. Start moving. The last one to be standing in front of me will be staying behind after lessons for the rest of the... My prince, it seems you are the ill fated one today."

Thranduil glared at the teacher, folding his small arms over his chest and raising his head proudly. "We helped you last week. You always choose us. You should be fair."

"And you should do as you have been told," Faeron countered. "I suggest you take that advice now."

"But I'm the prince."

Faeron's eyebrows shot up at the words, and he glanced at the other children under his tutelage. They had been watching with interest, but all three looked away the moment his gaze fell on them. "Did your friends tell you to say that? It is not like you."

"It doesn't matter," Thranduil said defiantly. He truly believed that. His companions had suggested he use the line to free them from a boring duty, and that was just what he was doing. Nobody was being harmed. "Besides, I am the prince. If I don't want to do something, I can say so. Can't I?"

"I think not," Faeron snorted derisively. Leaning down, he gripped the child's shoulders and nodded towards the army headquarters where his office lay. "I have no wish to put you in a different class for another instructor to teach, but I will not stand for that attitude in my lessons. Come with me. I think the time has come for your ideas to change before you get any older and deem yourself too good to lift a weapon with the army. You three! Carry on collecting those practice swords!"

As he was led across the training field towards the older elf's office, Thranduil swallowed and risked a glance over his shoulder at the friends he had left behind. All of them wore guilty expressions at the trouble they had seemingly landed him in, but he just flashed them a reassuring smile and quickened his pace slightly to keep up with the long strides of his weapons master. The army headquarters lay a short distance ahead, and he sighed quietly as they drew nearer. The single time he had passed through the doors was on a tour given to his entire novice class. The only reason for children to be taken inside was for an injury to be tended to, or for a reprimand that needed to be given in private. Since he had no wounds to speak of, it was certainly the latter that applied to the young royal.

"In there," Faeron nodded, pushing his door open and letting the student enter first. He followed in silence, aware of nervous blue eyes fixed upon him as he pulled a chair out from under his desk and set it in the middle of the room. "Come here, my Prince. We need to have a discussion, one that you will not need your leggings for. Lower them."

"What? You can't..." Thranduil took an instinctive step backwards, and his lip curled in a sneer that would one day be enough to frighten the bravest of warriors. He sometimes heard from other boys in his class that they had been taken over their instructor's knee, but not once had he imagined it happening to himself. "You can't do that to me. I'm the-

"Prince," Faeron finished. "And you have just earned yourself another five swats for disobeying me. Come here now, and get those leggings down. If I have to tell you again, it will be an extra ten swats. If I have to do it myself, it will be... Clever boy."

The child's hands had flown towards his waist as threats flew at him from every direction, and he looked down at them in silence. Surely this was not going to happen. His father was the one in charge of his discipline. He bit hard on his lip, and chanced a glance upwards at his teacher's face to search for confirmation. A single nod was his only reply. Suddenly the cocksure and arrogant little elf was no more, replaced by a frightened boy awaiting chastisement who looked as though he was fighting tears. Swallowing, he hooked his fingers into the waistband of his leggings to slowly lower them to his knees. The green material of his tunic covered him to half way down his thighs, but the rush of air upon his bare skin as he was guided over Faeron's knee made him flinch.

"Please, I'm sor- Ow!"

The shirt tails had been lifted, and Faeron pushed them up the boy's back with one hand as he smacked the small bottom with his other. "Be quiet. I have not even begun speaking to you, yet already you have the nerve to interrupt me. You are not in a position to try my patience any more than you have done already. Now, you may be the heir to the throne but that does not make you exempt from being punished for disobedience or ill manners. You are going to receive a spanking, and I don't want to see any attempts to stop it. You have been warned. Prepare yourself."

Thranduil parted his lips to breathe deeply, but a hard slap landed on his left cheek before he could inhale. It was swiftly followed by a second to his right, a third to his left, a fourth to his right, and it was not long before he recognised the pattern that was developing. Every so often, Faeron's smack would deliberately land dead in the centre. He was by no means the biggest or most strongly built boy in his age group, and the large hand of the weapons master easily covered his backside. A particularly forceful blow brought tears to his eyes, and he wriggled ineffectively as he was punished. He wanted to cry, but was it permitted? His father never forbade tears, but this was the first time he had received discipline from anyone else. He didn't know whether the same rules stood, or if Faeron would be angered further if he heard the sound of crying.

"You are a good student," the instructor lectured, emphasising each of his words with a slap. "I will not – I repeat not – see you ruin that through arrogance and high thoughts of yourself."

"No, I won't!" Thranduil cried, all thoughts of bravery gone. "I won't ruin it, I won't- Ow! I promise- Ow! You're hurting me!"

"You could be the best when you grow up, but you will never-" Faeron gave strength to the word with a resounding smack to the boy's upper thigh – "reach that aim unless you are prepared to forget your status and the palace you live in, the servants and the fancy clothes. You will never-" He seemed to enjoy emphasising that word in particular, for the swat that fell on it made the child scream a useless plea to be forgiven – "be the best if you cannot rid yourself of the awful attitude you displayed on the training field."

"I will! Please! Stop!"

As genuine sobs replaced angry and frustrated protests, Faeron finished punishing the reddened area with a number of slaps that fell upon the sensitive spot between bottom and legs that would make sitting particularly uncomfortable, and the inside of his student's thighs to remind him of the discipline when he walked anywhere. Just a matter of seconds after it was over, he rose and carefully laid the boy over the chair he had just vacated. He gave no warnings to stay there as he rounded his desk and pulled open a drawer to find the strap he would use for the five additional swats he had promised for direct disobedience, but he was sure Thranduil would not want to move for a while. When he found the length of leather, he returned immediately to the weeping boy and placed it meaningfully against his already flaming backside.

"What are you doing?" the prince cried, trying to look over his shoulder at the ominous touch. "I don't want... No, please. I'll be good! You can't do that! I'm..."

Faeron raised one eyebrow. "You are what?"

"I'm too little!" Thranduil screamed, missing the look of approval that flashed across his instructor's face. He had not even considered using his status to get out of that situation. Shaking with sobs, he buried his face in his arms and shifted as much as the pain would allow to try and remove the horrible leather from his skin. "My father never uses his belt on me because he says I'm not old enough. I don't want you to strap me, Faeron. I d-d-don't want i-i-it!"

"I use this on my older students when they displease me. It also serves the purpose of punishing the backsides of trainees and novices who forget all they need to know when fighting with the army for the safety of the kingdom. Direct disobedience is a crime, one that you became guilty of when you refused me," Faeron said, his voice firm but not unkind. "This is how my students are disciplined. Are you a student of mine, Thranduil?" He was given a tiny nod. "Or are you still the prince?" A smaller shake of the head came. "Then you will receive five with the strap. That is the way it must be. If you need help keeping your hands in place, tell me now and I will hold them down."

"I don't need help," Thranduil hissed, grabbing the chair legs with both hands.

Recognising the pride that was already so evident in the young boy, Faeron sighed softly and took a step back to give himself the best aim and angle. He lifted the leather and let it fly; it whistled through the air to crack against his student's red bottom. A piercing scream immediately sounded in the room, and the weapons master could not help but wince. It had surely woken any dead beings on the other side of the kingdom. The second and third stroke came in quick succession; it was in the moment between them that he had to throw one hand forward and pin Thranduil's wrists down. He did not want to discipline the child for anything else that day, and succeeding to stop correction always resulted in a prolonged punishment. Moving around the chair to better accommodate his new position, Faeron raised the strap for the penultimate stroke. It elicited another yell. He waited nearly half a minute before delivering the final one, aware that it had to cause more pain than the others to truly end the chastisement and deliver the message.

"It is finished," he pronounced quietly, laying the strap on the desk with a soft sigh. "Stay where you are, little one."

"N-n-n-no more!" Thranduil wailed, terror lacing his voice.

"No, no more. I have to write this in the punishment book. I want you to lay there and compose yourself," Faeron murmured. "Stand up when I return."

The young elf obeyed the first part of the order, lying on the hard chair and staining it with his tears as he wept for the pain and humiliation. He had never experienced such discipline before. His father was strict, but Oropher had not yet introduced him to anything other than a strong hand. After suffering through just five strokes with the strap, he hoped with all of his hurting heart that the king would never have need to punish him so severely. The small part of his mind that was rational told him that would surely not happen, that such a day would arrive eventually. Prone over the chair, Thranduil hugged himself as though looking for comfort. He certainly needed it.

"My prince?" Finishing at the desk, Faeron moved back to the middle of the room and placed a suddenly gentle hand on his student's back. "I am going to help you into a standing position now, then we will work on getting your leggings back up so you can go home. Come on. Take it slowly. If your legs feel weak, hold onto me. I am here."

"Why are you being nice?" Thranduil sobbed, allowing himself to be lifted from the chair and set carefully on his feet. "I don't understand."

Faeron smiled briefly, and knelt on the floor so that he and the child could be at eye level. As they spoke, he pulled the leggings up and arranged them gingerly over the areas that would be sore for the rest of the afternoon. "Sorry, I know that hurts," he muttered. "To every boy I teach, I am their disciplinarian, mentor and friend. Remember all three of those, but especially the last. I am your friend even after I have to punish you. We are friends now, and we will still be friends the next time you find yourself in here. I care for all of my students, little one. I can be hard and strict, but I always care."

"I'm sorry!"

"I know you are," Faeron soothed.

"May I see what you wrote about me?" Thranduil asked quietly. He wiped his eyes with the back of one sleeve. "Please."

"That is your right." The dark haired weapons master straightened, reaching past his sniffling student for the book lying on the edge of his desk. It was large and bound with black leather, with hundreds of pages detailing the necessary punishments for young novices over the years. "Here you are. You see I must write the date and location, then the child's name – you are entered as Prince Thranduil Oropherion – and the reason for their discipline. Next to that I must detail what that discipline was. You had five strokes with the strap. How many times do you think I used my hand?"

"Two hundred," Thranduil muttered.

Faeron hid a smile, and showed the boy the number he had written on the yellowed parchment. "You had twenty, little one."

"That's quite a lot." Biting on his lip as he considered, the prince's blue eyes fell on a second piece of writing in the book. He studied it in contemplative silence, before raising his troubled gaze to search the older elf's face. "Where you had to explain the reason for my discipline... What does it mean? I didn't pull rank. I didn't pull anything."

"You pulled rank," Faeron assured gently. "As the king's son, your position naturally gives you power to make others do what you want them to. That will come in useful one day, and it often does for senior officers in battle. But coming from a little boy who is still young enough to have his bottom bared for a spanking... Well, you understand why you must not take advantage of your status. Many elders would have taken you over their knee for trying to dictate to them, no matter what blood is in your veins."

"Are you going to tell my father?"

"I must."

"He will spank me too."

Sighing, Faeron took a seat at his desk and penned a short letter to the king. It took just a few minutes to write, and he folded it in half as he rose once again and held it out. "Give this to your father. It explains everything. I think you will be safe from his anger, but ask him to read the note a second time if he shows signs of losing his temper. I suggest you go now to the palace, speak with him sooner rather than later."

"I will," Thranduil said quietly. "Thank you. Thank you for caring."

He gave the weapons master a weak smile and a respectful nod as he left the office and walked up the corridor to leave the army headquarters. His eyes were red and his walk slow and careful, but there was nothing he could do to hide the fact that he had just been punished; even as he crossed the training field and passed a pair of young soldiers who exchanged knowing grins that made his blood boil, he did not bother trying to maintain a stoic expression or hold himself naturally. It was not worth the added pain to stop limping. The journey from army barracks to palace was usually no more than five minutes, but it took him fifteen on that occasion. Partly because he was hurting, partly because he did not wish to face another irate elf.

As he found himself walking the path to the office he had been summoned to after many previous misdeeds , the boy sighed and made a half hearted attempt to straighten his clothes and tidy his hair. He rubbed at his face to try and hide all evidence of his sadness, but the razor sharp eyes of the king's aide coming the other way down the corridor noticed immediately. "Is my father busy?" he asked, before the older elf could say a word.

"With papers, but he has nobody with him," the secretary replied. He paused, and looked carefully at the child's face. "You have been crying, my prince."

Thranduil just smiled humourlessly, and knocked three times on the office door. There was a moment of silence before he heard a strong voice call out with permission to enter. Drawing a breath, he pushed the door open and stepped across the threshold. He had tried to deduce his father's mood from the tone of voice, but two neutral words were not enough to reassure him that Oropher was in a pleasant temperament. "Good afternoon, Ada," he muttered. "May I speak with you for a while?"

"Shut the door," the blond king replied, glancing up only briefly from his work. "What is it?"

"I have...a letter."

Barely suppressing a sigh, Oropher pushed his papers away and held out one hand to take the proffered note. His keen eyes swept over his only child's face, and it looked for a moment as though he wanted to ask what had happened. But he remained silent, flipping the letter open and scanning it too swiftly for every word to have been taken in. His own fair face slowly darkened with anger, and his green eyes flashed furiously. If he had not been irate before, he certainly was now. "What is the meaning of this?" he demanded, letting the piece of parchment fall onto his desk. "You refused your weapons master in the presence of other students, your reasons being status? You think yourself better than your classmates?"

"No, sir. My friends suggested it," Thranduil said quietly.

"Just because they put the idea into your head, you did not have to show yourself up – or me, for that matter – by acting like a spoilt little brat who thinks he is too good to do some work. Come here," Oropher snapped, rising sharply and grabbing his son's wrist. "I will set your ideas straight for you."

"Ada, no! Please! You have to read the letter again," the prince panicked. "Faeron said that if you became angry, I was to ask that you read it again. Please..."

Glaring at the little boy, Oropher snatched the note back up from the desk and let his eyes fly over the short row of lines written by the weapons master. The second perusal yielded a few choice words that he had skipped over in his anger during the first reading, and he glanced sideways at his child as he sat down again. "He used the strap on you?"

"Five times."

"And you took it?"

Thranduil nodded just once, his blue eyes cast towards the floor. "It hurt."

"That is the idea. Each stroke feels like fire, and is the equivalent of a good few slaps from a hand. Very well. Come here..." Aware that his son's face had whitened, Oropher turned the boy around and pulled his leggings down a short way to examine the multitude of colours the once pale bottom had become. Faeron had certainly made his message clear. Rearranging the clothing, he spun his child back to face him once more. "You are very lucky today, ion-nín. I am letting you off with an early bedtime and no dessert tonight, but I promise that if any more of this pulling rank reaches my ears, I might borrow your instructor's strap myself. You have privileges and a title, but you are not being raised to flaunt them. I never want to hear that this has happened again. You will be a very sorry little elfling if I do. Have I made myself clear?"

"Yes, sir. Sorry, sir."

Narrowing his eyes, Oropher nodded towards the door. "Go to your room. I will see you at the evening meal."

"Ada, I... I had plans to go and play with my friends. Now that I have been punished, may I still see them?" Thranduil asked quietly, wondering if this was the wisest course to be taking. "We were to go swimming at the lake."

"You are walking on very thin ice. I am your father and your king, so I suggest that you do as you have been told without questioning it," Oropher replied dangerously.

The prince nodded swiftly and beat a hasty retreat to the door, although a sudden thought gripped him as he wrapped his fingers around the handle. Looking over his shoulder, he carefully studied the older elf's position and wondered how long it would take for the distance between them to be closed. "Ada? May I ask you something?"

"What now?" the king snapped.

"Did you just pull rank?"

END