Leaf
Thranduil felt a tear slip down his cheek as he gazed upon his son.
The elfling was wrapped in a warm blanket, and his small, icy blue eyes, innocent and oblivious to the world, were glazed over in sleep, his tiny hands curled into fists at his side.
He sat on the bed next to the newborn's cot and gently reached out a hand, stroking the wisps of blond hair which had already begun sprouting from his head.
He was beautiful.
And he was his.
His baby.
His son.
His little Greenleaf.