I just stumbled upon the blind!Thranduil headcanon at like midnight yesterday and really wanted to write it so. Here's this.

Disclaimer: I do not own the Lord of the Rings or all affiliated works and I am making no money from this this silly fic. I also know little to nothing of Tolkien lore/languages/etc, so sorry if I step on any toes.

Standing with his eyes closed at the base of what had once been a massive tree, Thranduil Oropherion tilted his head back and drew in a deep breath, allowing the scents of the forest to fill his lungs. For the first time in a year, the trees of Eryn Lasgalen smelled, as they once had, of spring: crisp and warm and welcoming. As ever, the Shadow lingered, but it was faint and fading for the first time in millennia.

The smell of ash remained, but Thranduil no longer mourned. The forest had been ravaged during the fighting at the end of the Ring War, but it would soon grow back all the healthier for it. The woods that he'd become so familiar with had changed in the year since the fire, but he didn't mind. The trees — as tired and scarred as they were — would never let him come to danger nor wander astray.

Opening his eyes, the Elvenking turned back to where he could hear the voices of those coaxing life back into the trees and searching for food. He could hear them clearly, far more clearly than even most of his kin, as sensitive as their ears were. But the world remained dark to his eyes, his open lids revealing nothing more than faint shadows shifting as the light wavered beneath the thin foliage.

He heard their voices suddenly hush and then rise up again, far too loudly and far too delightedly for any simple happenstance.

Thranduil didn't have time to focus on the particulars before footsteps came towards him, soft and long and without any hesitation. He recognized his eldest son, Laerornor, and heard a lightness in his steps that had not been there in far too long. With the ease of practice, Thranduil turned his eyes questioningly towards the newcomer.

Laerornor's voice was light, and Thranduil could imagine the smile that brightened his face. "Aran nîn, word has just arrived. Legolas is on his way home."

The words were deceptively simple, and yet they caused such a wave of relief that Thranduil froze, his entire body tensing and his eyes widening. Rendered speechless for several long seconds, the Elvenking could do nothing but stand in breathless exhilaration. Legolas was alive. His son was alive.

Laerornor took a step forwards, and Thranduil felt the air shift as his hand reached out with concern. "Aran nîn? Adar?"

Thranduil collected himself, but he couldn't hide the trembling in his hands. "When is he to return?"

Laerornor's voice was carefully smooth. "The missive didn't say."

The Elvenking's glamour didn't change, although a dangerous note crept into his voice. He didn't need visible cues to tell him when his son was keeping something from him. "Laerornor. . . ."

Laerornor let out all his breath in a sharp gust of air, and Thranduil's heart stuttered as he heard two more sets of footsteps approaching.

One was heavy and unfamiliar, the time between the footfalls abnormally short for an elf. A dwarf, then, for hobbits were generally lighter on their feet.

(And only a dwarf would be able to make such a racket in a forest where ash covered the ground)

But the second set of footsteps. . . . Those were light and held the faintest hint of a bounce to them, though they now carried a heaviness, a solemnity, that was unfamiliar and strange. Thranduil could remember those very same footsteps pattering outside his doorway as his youngest son darted past. Legolas' voice, light and teasing, said, "Laerornor, I have been very far and seen a great very many things, and I will not be sorry to see less of you. Don't tease Adar so." But there was affection in his voice, and Laerornor let out the bright laughter of the elves, which had been achingly absent of late under these trees.

For the second time that day, Thranduil found himself completely breathless at this turn of events. He reached out towards his youngest son, desperate to assure himself that he was alive and unharmed and safe. Unable to put into words how intense his relief was, he merely said, "Legolas, ion nîn, you've returned."

Legolas didn't need any more coaxing; he threw himself forwards, wrapping his arms around Thranduil and burying his face in his father's shoulder as he hadn't done since he'd been an elfling. "Ada, I've come home," he murmured, just as unable to say more as his father.

Warmth exploded in Thranduil's chest, and the Elvenking hugged his son just as fiercely, shooting a glare over his shoulder towards Laerornor. "And I am glad to have been informed of your arrival in a timely manner."

Laerornor made the slightly disgruntled noise he made when he shrugged, clearly too relieved by Legolas' safe return to allow even his father's momentary irritation to dampen his spirits.

In the distance, Thranduil could hear the dwarf shifting uncomfortably and the other elves tactfully returning to their work.

"The trees are gone," Legolas murmured, and Thranduil could hear the loss in his voice and feel the tremble in his shoulders.

"They will return," Thranduil murmured, "and they will be stronger for it." His lips curled into a smile and he added, "Just as you have, ion nîn. I am very proud of you." And he was, so proud that he felt his heart might burst. In time, he would deal with his worry and heartache and terror of the past years, but for now all his concerns were assuaged with the simple fact that his son — his Legolas — was home.

"We heard what happened to Dol Guldur. I'm glad you're okay." Legolas turned his head to look at Laerornor, and so Thranduil could feel the smile that brightened his face. "You too, muindor." There was an openness to his tone, a plainness that hadn't been there before he'd traveled so far and so long with mortals.

Thranduil pulled away and ran his fingers lightly across Legolas' face and arms, again assuring himself that his son was fine. He froze when his fingers caught upon something hard in Legolas' hair, and his brow furrowed as he splayed his fingers, feeling the strange new braid that adorned his son. He felt the heat that flared across Legolas' cheeks and ears as he quickly ducked away and settled comfortably at the dwarf's side.

Slowly, Thranduil turned his face towards the dwarf, eyes widening ever so slightly in their most unnerving stare. The dwarf's feet shuffled slightly, and Thranduil's hearing — now that it was focused — could pick up the dwarf's suddenly thunderous heartbeat.

Voice firm, daring his father to argue, Legolas declared, "This is Gimli son of Gloin. He was one of the Nine Walkers and the Three Hunters who traveled with me during our long journey, and he is my dearest friend."

Thranduil's memory was long, and he could easily remember the voices and footsteps of the thirteen Dwarves that had once been in his halls. He remembered Gloin, remembered the way he stood, feet planted solidly despite his nervousness. Gimli was similar, but there was something softer and more forgiving about him. He was still stone-steady, but he too had been changed by his journeys. Somewhat stiffly, Thranduil said, "Welcome to Eryn Lasgalen, Master Dwarf."

Voice rougher and lower than the liquid Elven voices Thranduil was accustomed to, the Dwarf replied, "It's still a sight to see, even if it hasn't fared all too well during the war."

Thranduil tilted his face towards Legolas, his glamour shifting as he raised his eyebrows. "And I assume you would have something to do with my son's sudden desire to wear Dwarvish braids?"

At his side, Thranduil felt Laerornor take a step forwards, and subtly shifted his weight to draw attention back to himself.

Legolas didn't say anything for a second, and then he managed, "Well— I, um—"

Thranduil felt his heart slowly sinking in his chest. Oh, sweet Valar say he hasn't. . . .

Laerornor suddenly let out a low oh. He'd been the one to travel to Erebor with supplies and aid during the last year, and he had learned enough to recognize the braid in his brother's hair. "Legolas," he breathed, voice suddenly deadly somber, "those are courting braids, aren't they?" There was no emotion other than shock in his voice, nothing to give away how he felt. But Thranduil could hear the slight unevenness to his breath as he fought to keep laughter down and, not for the first time, silently bemoaned having an heir who could somehow find humor in even the fact that Legolas was courting a Dwarf.

"No, those are betrothal braids," Gimli said conversationally, "Courtship braids are shorter, and they don't have beads like that."

Laerornor erupted into peals of silvery laughter, and it was only Thranduil's stormy expression that prevented the others from following suit. Laerornor reached over and brushed his father's shoulder, talking all the while. "We were expecting you to come back dead, muindor! But instead you come with a Dwarf in tow!" The strange pair of lovers bristled, but Laerornor's voice was warm as he said, "You must have a formal wedding, else I'll throw a surprise feast and I know very well that you detest surprises, Legolas!"

Legolas retorted, the shock in his voice contradicting the sharpness of his words, "It's only because your surprises usually bite."

"You're telling me that you're betrothed to a Dwarf," Thranduil murmured, and all three immediately fell silent. The Elvenking's eyes were sharp, but they were as sightless as ever. He was pleased that his voice didn't even tremble; the storm of emotions within him made him want to shout.

Legolas' reply was openly defiant, something else he'd undoubtably picked up during his travels. "Yes."

Thranduil sucked in a sharp breath and turned away. He walked only a few paces before stopping, his fingers darting out and alighting on a tree trunk to steady himself. This tree, though charred, was alive, and Thranduil drew strength from its steady pulse.

He loved his son, and he wished the best for him. But a Dwarf? A Dwarf lived longer than a Man, yes, but their lives still passed as fleetingly as the first drops of dew on a summer day. He knew Legolas, knew how keenly he felt loss of all sorts. Thranduil had endured nearly losing his son to Elrond's quest — unwillingly! — and he refused to lose him because of a Dwarf.

The Dwarf would die, for there would be no stopping it. But Legolas. . . .

Behind him, Thranduil could hear his sons and the dwarf whispering fiercely. Both his sons knew how sensitive his hearing was, and so their voices were just low enough that he couldn't pick out individual words.

But the Dwarf interrupted them, hissing in what could only barely pass as a whisper, "I'm not backing down. Laerornor, I've found my One in Legolas. I've braved Fangorn for him, and would go far worse if he so much as asked. I promise you — and a Dwarf always keeps his promise — that I mean no ill will towards Legolas. I love him."

Laerornor's reply was just loud enough that Thranduil could pick out the merest impressions of his words. "And you know elves can die of love?"

Legolas hissed, and Thranduil heard his weight shift as he moved to take the Dwarf's hand. In that same, deep rumble, the Dwarf murmured, "Aye, and we've talked about this."

"Extensively," Legolas whispered.

Thranduil closed his eyes and let out the barest whisper of a sigh. Yes, he loved Legolas. And it was clear that this Dwarf — Gimli — did so as well. With a sinking feeling, Thranduil realized that there was nothing he could do about it. Legolas had grown since he'd left Mirkwood all those months ago. If Gimli was turned away now, then Legolas would follow.

And Thranduil wasn't letting his son go again, not now. Not so soon after he'd just returned.

He abruptly turned and strode back to the trio, their whispers dying away at his purposeful approach. When he didn't say anything, Legolas said pleadingly, "Ada?"

Thranduil's heart melted and he reluctantly turned his face towards Gimli. "You must be tired and hungry from your journey. The Halls are not far, and there you can rest and recuperate."

Gimli's voice held just the barest hint of confusion. "Thank you."

Laerornor turned to lead them, although Legolas could probably have found his way home from here despite the damage that still lingered, and the two lovers turned to follow. As Gimli passed him, Thranduil's arm shot out. With careful precision, his long fingers latched nimbly onto the Dwarf's thick wrist. "I do not like this," he said quietly, voice low and dangerous, "but I will not oppose it. You are welcome in these woods, Gimli son of Gloin, for as long as my son shall will it."

Legolas reached out and touched his father's shoulder, their silent way of expressing affection when to do so aloud was not possible. He knew that he'd just received his father's blessing, or as near as he was going to get, and it'd been far less explosive than he'd been expecting.

Laerornor cleared his throat and started off again. "Anyways, I can probably draw up baths for you, and I'm sure we have spare rooms if you'd rather not share Legolas'."

Thranduil released Gimli and brushed his own fingertips across his youngest son's shoulder. For the first time in a long time, he wished he could see more than just shadows. He wished to see the face of his son's beloved, to judge his worth by his own eyes.

But he must simply trust to Legolas' judgement in this matter.

As his sons and Gimli traveled deeper into the woods, Legolas suddenly stopped and spun around, as butterfly-light as he'd always been. Voice bright with delight, he called back, "Hannon le, ada!"

Thranduil couldn't help the smile that flashed across his face, automatically shifting the glamour as well. He merely raised his hand in acceptance and tilted his head, listening to Legolas' footsteps and voice until it'd grown too faint too hear.

Shaking his head, the Elvenking strode forwards and returned to his work, pulling the last of the Shadow from the trees around him.

Aran nîn: my king

Adar/ada: father/daddy

Ion nîn: my son

Muindor: brother

Hannon le: thank you