Feren's POV

Chapter Text

Chapter 9: Spectacle

Feren was having a hard time finding volunteers for the next day's border patrol. He would simply have to put names into a hat, exercise his authority and draw out the unlucky guards who would not be able to drink and take part in the merrymaking and revelry that was supposed to complement the little prince's official anointing, presentation to and joining of the court, appearing formally for the first time to be marvelled at by the high ranking and servants alike, along with the delegations that had arrived from Dale, Rivendell, Eldamar and Lothlorien for the purpose.

It was going to be a big day of joy and celebration for more than just for the royal family and the elvish people, with many causes for merriment, some well known among the people, some evident only for those close to the king: the revival of the forest that started to remind older elves of Greenwood, the blessing of a child, the rare event of a royal family's milestone, the king's health. How close Thranduil had come to fading not long after the little prince, Nestaron* was conceived was not common knowledge, nor was his residual feebleness that required him to restrict his activities and take to actual sleeping, still, at regular intervals. This was why Feren wanted to check on the little family and make sure that they, or more like Thranduil was up for the busy day that would call for lengthy socialising with allies and performing to the people's expectations in a way that would reassure them about the future.

Feren let himself into the royal chambers without a second thought, used to stand ready to offer his services in the gallery all the other private rooms opened from. Not many shared the same privilege, not even servants and nannies were customarily welcome in this private area. After having stayed the same for centuries bar for a book or stationary moving an inch or so, the last year of drastic changes and Tauriel's influence had altered the appearance of the place quite a lot. The dark haired elf had no idea how, but the archer had somehow managed to convince Thranduil to get rid of many of the antique desks and stands that littered the space to the extent some doors could only be reached by going round. It wasn't to make room for new furniture, but to free the area for little pitter-pattering feet that liked to dance and run.

Nestaron, just like any other elven child, was developing quickly and at a much faster speed than those of men, and although he looked and was not much more than ten months old, he could jump and shout and squeal and run while playing the hide and seek version of catch with his pet kirinki bird his father gifted him. Which is what he was doing exactly when the head of the royal guard found himself unfortunate enough to stand in the way and be attacked by an overenthusiastic bird that was looking for a hidden child under his cloak by pecking at his shoulders.

"Would your Highness be so kind as to recall the pest!" Feren peeked under one of the remaining bureaus where he could see the little prince was hiding.

Nestaron climbed out on his hands and knees and whistled-a short, but melodious sound to communicate with the bird, a language partially forgotten by the likes of him, Silvan or not, who had spent centuries at the caves and out the forest, but one that had been taught to the child by his mother. Tauriel was young enough to remember her heritage and the years spent surviving at hairbreaths in the dense woodland will never be lost on her, despite her being Elvenqueen of Mirkwood. In the direct and unceremonious fashion of her mother's, Nestaron held out his hands as he climbed to his feet in front of Feren and demanded to be picked up.

The guard sighed, at a loss. Touching royalty has never been the condonable done thing, but the child seemed so keen that he ended up lifting him up into his arms. "Where is nana and ada then, huh?"

"Thank you for catching him, Feren," Tauriel appeared from one of the climbable walk-in wardrobes and the guard had to take a moment to process the sight. Longer than ever, the young queen's hair was swaying freely around her, the colour of her long, light, satin gown matching her curls, bar for the silver, diamante and pearls embroidered into it that in pattern and shade were the only thing reminiscent of her old green and brown favourite attires, along with the intricate crown, clearly fashioned to taste. Feren had never seen her as regal looking before, not at her wedding ceremony or at her coronation, most likely because the elleth had been too absorbed in making sure Thrandruil was well enough, rather than concentrating on formalities. But most astounding was the Lasgalen necklace, sparkling spectacularly on her proudly held neck. It took the chief guard's breath away. Tauriel didn't usually bother with appearances, but it looked like this time she really wanted to please the king and Thranduil her, seeing as how he had those jewels resized, fitted and gifted to his new queen.

"He wouln't wear his crown," Tauriel complained, advancing with the item in hand. "Keeps running away if I want to put it on."

"Legolas was the same," Feren appeased, "much to my Lord Thranduil's chagrin."

"He still is the same," the warrior queen mused, trailing off. Legolas was not mentioned much, round Thranduil even less. They all missed him, but not talking about him somehow made it a little better. "I can't blame Nestaron either. I must look very different from his mother in these clothes," she frowned, looking down on herself. Right enough, the child showed no interest in leaving Feren's arms. Tauriel had it in her character to air a self-certainty that when paired with regal attires, conveyed her a look of natural grand majesticity, but right at this moment in time of private exposure, she seemed uncomfortable in the role.

"You are beautiful, if I may, my Queen," the once hostile to her guard nodded at her. The Battle of Erebor seemed so long ago, although it was in reality not even a couple of years back. That Thranduil had a soft spot for the insolent elleth, that was clear, nobody would've gotten away with so much as the younger elf, but once the king's faithful protector witnessed how Tauriel cared and tortured herself and worked for Thranduil's life and wellbeing, Feren was resolved to putting his own life down for the ruler's consort as well.

"You may not." Thranduil glided out the bedroom, dressed in his silver robe that favoured his figure, now not as sickly thin as he had not long ago been, and a regal cape that matched Tauriel's ensemble's dominant colour. His purposeful steps gave no indication of the lingering weakness in his legs that forced him to habitually hold onto fixtures or walls when in his private rooms and take frequent rests and that, perhaps paradoxically, made Feren uneasy. If Thranduil was starting with pretences early, would he last?

Unconcerned with Feren's worries, Thranduil embraced his wife from the back and pulled her close, breathing her in, gathering his strength from her very existence that showered him with her love. With Tauriel tilting her head to the side, they shared a moment Feren deemed too private to witness and thus he took the child over to his rocking elk and set it on motion for him in a controlled manner, making sure the little prince didn't fall off. No, he heard no rustling and kisses.

"He's such a good boy for you," Tauriel observed. And as the voice sounded from close by, Feren dared to turn. "Any chance you could try and convince him to put on his coat and the silver leggings? The servants had it all set out on his bed," she entreated. "We will deal with the crown trouble later."

Thranduil sat by his signing desk, showing his weariness. "Or perhaps you're here to report?" He suggested.

"No, Sire. Not unless what was to report was that all preparations for the ceremony are underway as planned. I am no nurse and have no idea how he will comply, but I can take the prince if you so wish and have nothing else for me," the dark haired elf established.

Another moment passed between husband and wife, fleeting, but it still came close to making the weatherworn warrior blush. Those two could make someone uncomfortable and look like they were intimate just by glancing at each other. Of course the honeymoon period was barely over and with Thranduil only just recovering the majority of his strength. "Yes, please, be so kind," Tauriel directed. "I am really having no luck with him today. Perhaps you."

"Did you get the little carved archer I fashioned and had sent for you?" Feren leaned down to the elfling's level. "Shall we go see if it's in your room?" He lifted the nodding boy off the toy elf. So far so good.

The youngster fingered the leather straps on his carrier's cloak, fascinated by the feel of the kine of araw skin and the king's chief guard was thankful for that, for the young one's parents were once more confined to their own little world. On the other hand and shaking his head incredulously, Feren couldn't help but glance at them as he turned the corner for the princeling's chambers.

"Are you sure you're ready for this?" Tauriel sat down beside her spouse, placing a hand on his knee. It was an encouraging squeeze, rather than a restricting one. Thranduil placed his hand on hers, not saying anything, but reassuring her with a ghost of a poised smile.

Feren wondered why he'd ever had doubts. Thranduil would perhaps never completely recover from his weighty, renewed brush with death, but he will not fade. Not while Tauriel was by his side.

The End.

Glossary:

Nestaron – the one who heals.