A/N:

So this is another one-shot in my WIP series titled "The Singer Saga" (a working title I think). Hope you like it. This is the second in the one-shot series. And I'm still nervous about getting the frustrating and enigmatic Thranduil correct. Oi. Hope I got the mood right.

As always, like, follow, favorite, subscribe, and review,

Much Love,

JR

Bedtime Stories

"Tell me a story." The little boy demanded as his father gently tucked blankets around his small little frame.

It was well past the little one's bedtime. Stars were shimmering outside the open balcony doors. But it was springtime, and who was a father to tell his rambunctious son to come inside before the sun had even set? If he could, he would have been out with him, catching the little bugs that flashed their tiny lights in the waning light.

But, alas, he could not. He barely had time any longer to make sure his son got to sleep, let alone play with him. Of course, that was by design. He rarely slept anymore, knowing that if sleep came without exhaustion then he would be greeted by nightmares as soon as his eyes slid closed.

Sighing, he moved to sit on the giant bed next to his child. "What story would you have?" He asked, pinching out the tiny flame of a candle that shone from the table next to them.

On the far wall, there was a fire dancing merrily behind the grate, light enough he supposed, to keep his son from his nightly fears. If only that worked for him.

"Tell me how you met naneth." The little boy whispered, snuggling down into the pillows and blankets that surrounded him so he would not roll from the bed in his restless sleep. When his father didn't reply or begin the tale, he worried that he wouldn't at all. Some days, when he could see the lines of pain and grief in his father's face, he worried that it would cause his father to fade. Other days his father raged like a dragon whose treasure had been stolen.

On those days he watched his father battling his guards in the practice fields until all of them were dripping with sweat. On those days he didn't tell his father that he pretended to be asleep next to him while his father held him at night and wept. He never told.

Then there were some days, like today, when his father was still and quiet. When the drawing of his mother was tucked into the folds of his robe in the hidden pocket that lay just over his heart. Those days were the best days. When his father let slip some tidbits of information about his mother.

When he would pull out the drawing and tell him that he had his mother's spirit, her joy. When he would tell him that his mother was the better archer between the two of them, but of course his father was the better swordsman. It had been a day like this that his father had given him his small bow and sword. "We don't know which you will be best at yet, but your mother had them made for you as soon as she knew she carried you." His father told him. "Maybe you'll have skill that bests us both if you practice very hard."

He would tell about how she was forever out in the woods, twigs in her long hair and mud on her nose. At least, it had been before they married. He would show the shell that his mother had collected on the coast that she swore you could hear the ocean in, but it would not cause a longing for the sea. He would show the drum and flute that his mother had played and tell him that they would find him a music teacher and maybe if he practiced, he might one day play his mother's instruments.

"I can barely remember her some days, Ada." The little boy whispered into the dark, reaching for his father's sleeve. "I can't remember her face if I don't see a drawing of her sometimes." Tears filled his little eyes. "Please."

His father stilled, not even breathing. And then his shoulders, normally so broad, straight and proud, slumped and he twisted to lay atop the covers next to his son. "Some days I have trouble too." He confessed. "Some days it hurts too much to remember her face, but it hurts even more not to."

Gathering his son closer, he sighed into the white-blond hair that smelled of trees outside. "Once upon a time, not so very far away. There was a small glen hidden among the trees. A bed of moss-covered the ground and a few fallen trees. A small river cut through one side. I was out with my father, exploring our new kingdom, learning its ways and its people when I heard drumming. I turned aside, even though our guard warned me not to. He said it was only the wildest of the elves and that it was dangerous for me to go and see."

Gasping, the little boy could just see his father in the light armor he wore for traveling speaking to his head of the guard, a much older ellon with a wicked scar that sliced down the center of his face, splitting his nose in two even after so many years that it normally would have faded to the ages. "Were you afraid?"

"Never." His father assured, brushing his hair lightly. Pulling back slightly, his father reached into his robes and withdrew the tiny picture set in a folding gold frame, and opened it before handing it to him.

Opening it, Legolas smiled seeing the two familiar miniature paintings. One was of him. The other, his mother. "Naneth was in the glen wasn't she?"

"She was." Thranduil breathed, gathering his son close again to continue the tale. "As I drew close, I heard laughing. Then a whistle. Then a stringed instrument I was not familiar with that lays across the lap. As I broke through the trees into the clearing, I saw her."

"Was she as pretty as she is in the painting?"

"More." Chuckling, Thranduil allowed the memories to transport him back to a happier time. Before the trees had forgotten how to laugh with him. Before the darkness had come. "She was covered in mud up to her knees, wild curly hair flying behind her, spinning and dancing with a group of other young elves. And when she caught sight of me she pulled me into the clearing and into the dance." He chuckled again, remembering that there were a few details he couldn't tell his son until he was much older.

"After a time I knew I had to be getting back to my father and our party so I turned away to leave. But I didn't wish to. Somehow, I knew I was destined for her."

"But you hadn't even talked to her yet!" His son protested.

"Sometimes, you know a person in a moment my son," Thranduil whispered, taking the framed miniatures back and setting them on the table where they both could see them. "Sometimes it takes a lifetime and still you can be surprised by them. In either case," he said returning to the story. "I turned to leave the dancers when the music changed and she began to sing. It was soft and sweet as dew on the grass at first. Then her voice swelled until it echoed from the trees and danced among the leaves. She sang of true love. Deeper than the oceans, stronger than the tides, that lasts for years unending."

A tiny smile tugged at his lips, as he gazed down at his son. At his age, he would have preferred to hear of battles and courageous deeds, not love stories. Legolas truly was his mother's son. But then again what was real, true, honest love but the most courageous deed of all?

"Was she singing to you?" His son asked on a yawn that nearly split his face in two.

Thranduil smiled, "no. She wasn't." He chuckled, remembering his jealousy when he had turned to see that she was singing to another male. But then that male had turned to the ellith beside him and you could almost taste the love that shone between them. "She was singing to a young couple that had been mated for less than a month, apparently this was a celebration for them that I had stumbled into without an invitation."

"Very rude," Legolas mumbled, his eyes growing heavy as the warmth of his father's hold and the low rumble of his voice sank into his tiny frame.

"Indeed." The king agreed. "But then we both know you will be a more polite prince than I." Kissing his tiny son's forehead, his voice dropped lower to follow Legolas into the land of dreams. "I turned to leave but as I entered the trees I heard a voice call after me. 'Not even going to ask me my name, Prince Thranduil Oropherion?' The owner of the voice laughed. 'Is the wild prince afraid of me?' Her voice rose and fell like the mountains or the waves I hadn't seen in so long. It rolled like storm clouds over the plains it seemed to me. Like she had been born or created from the elements themselves."

"I turned to find she was barely a step behind me. And I hadn't even sensed her. Her eyes were as green as the new spring leaves and her hair a reddish-brown that I had never seen before, with gold streaks like sunlight through it."

"Like Tauriel?" His son mumbled, barely awake.

"No." Thranduil frowned, thinking of his son's little friend. "You're nana was…" He trailed off, looking at the tiny painting again, wishing once again that somehow she would keep her promise and come back to them. Somehow, she could help him speak to his son in a way that he wished his ada would have with him. Honestly, kindly, full of love.

Not as the stern king he had needed to be with their people during the troubled years that had plagued his rule. Sons needed fathers, not kings. He was a king outside the family rooms. But inside? Inside he was an Ada. And he needed to keep that balance to keep his promise so she would keep hers. "Lighter. Free, wild even. In mind, in body, in spirit. Even in dark days, there was a lightness about her. Much like you."

"I was struck dumb. She glowed. More so than any of the Eldar I have seen." He continued. "I hadn't seen it in the light of the glen, but there in the darkness of the trees? There was no mistaking it. She bowed but it was a mocking bow, as if she laughed at me, at my title. It meant nothing to her."

"'May I ask your name, my lady?' I asked, having no intention of letting her think I was scared of her. She was so small she barely came up to my chest, why should I be afraid of her?" As Legolas slumped, finally giving in to his dreams, Thranduil gave a passing thought to ending his tale but found he couldn't bring himself to stop. Not yet. "'Caelann.' She said. 'Caelann, what?' I asked. She spread her arms as wide as they would go. 'Caelann of the Forest, the Mountains, the Rivers, the Sea, the Stars, and the Sky.' She answered."

"'As all the Eldar are.' I told her. 'But who are your parents? How am I to address you?' She smiled the smile I later came to know meant she had a secret that I was not to know. 'Parents?' She asked and shrugged. 'I do not know. I woke from the depths of the ocean and walked onto the shore. The stars were overhead and the trees were singing to me.' She shrugged once again. 'I am just Caelann.'"

Smiling at the confusion and curiosity that had filled him at those words. It was only later that he learned the secret that she held. "'A pleasure to meet you, Lady Caelann.' I said, taking her hand and bowing over it. I kissed her knuckles as I did with all beautiful elleth. But Caelann was different. She didn't flutter and sigh over me. She simply laughed and pulled me into a kiss as if she had been my lover for many long years. 'I've wanted to do that for ages.' She said when she pulled back. I was silent once again from shock and surprise. And before I could shake myself from it, she had disappeared into the trees again. But I heard these words drifting to me on the wind, 'I'll see you again Prince. I promise.'"

Having come to the end of his tale, Thranduil gently pulled his arms from around the sleeping boy, tucking the blankets in once more. Taking a moment to look at the soft glow that emanated from his son's pale cheeks, Thranduil mused that he looked so much like his naneth. Legolas may have had his coloring, but otherwise, he was all Caelann down to the twist of his most mischievous smile.

Turning away from his most precious treasure, Thranduil turned to go out on the balcony, brushing unbidden tears from his eyes before he turned back and caught up the small paintings and carried them with him into the starlit night.

The cool stone of the balcony was barely noticeable to him anymore. Sensation had dulled since Caelann had passed. It was as if he was numb to anything but Legolas and the darkness that simmered and stretched within him in response to the darkness he felt growing in the wood around them. Caelann had been there when the darkness took hold, but with her light, it could not conquer him. Now though? It was a daily struggle. And he was so tired.

Tired of fighting. Tired of hiding his thoughts from everyone. Tired of the mask that he had to wear each day. Just so tired that every movement felt as if he was moving through mud. That every breath felt as if there was a weight on his chest. That simply getting through the day took more than he had to give at times.

Letting his breath out in a long, slow exhale, he leaned back against the wall of the palace and slid down until he could sit on the floor. Stretching his legs out before him, he cradled the miniatures carefully in his large palms, running his thumb back and forth over the heavy braid of hair that fell over Caelann's left shoulder and let today's batch of tears flow unchecked.

Silent tears became quiet sobs that shook his frame. Drawing his knees to his chest, he hugged them to himself and gave in to his grief.

Sometime later when his chest hurt too much to continue its shaking and the weeping slowed, Thranduil rested his head back against the cool unfeeling stone wall behind him and stared up into the stars. "I do not know what plans you have for us, that required her to die." He whispered into the darkness. "I do not have the gift of foresight. I do not understand why you took her away from our son who needs her, from me. I do not understand why you claim to love us, sang us into existence if all we have is pain to look forward to."

Brushing angrily at the tracks of tears that wet his cheeks, he continued. "But if she said you made her a promise then you did. She promised that she would come back to me, to us. And she never breaks her word. So keep your damned promise and give her back to us!"

Far away Varda heard his words and, taking hold of her husband's hand, bowed her head.