"He's a child," said Legolas.
"Your father did not tell you?"
"…Perhaps he did not know?"
Elrond stroked his chin, considering the small boy—about ten years old—who frolicked with his foster-brothers. "I may have been unclear in my recent letter," he admitted.
"This is the one called Strider?" Legolas clarified.
"It… is a nickname. He wishes it to be his 'ranger name' when he is grown. We may have to subtly suggest it to some of his associates."
Legolas chuckled under his breath.
"If you desire other missions…"
"No, no. My father says this boy may grow to be a great man. Great men need great friends, you know. And great archery teachers."
. . . . . .
Meanwhile in Greenwood… ah, but it was called Mirkwood now. Thranduil always forgot. The wood elves did not acknowledge that name, of course, but it was not… entirely inaccurate.
It was so strange. Now, with the world falling into darkness, with the very forest he called home rotting… now the Elvenking remembered how to smile.
He wandered the halls of his palace, making an effort to notice the elaborate carvings. Eithryn had not cared about those so much, but he had greatly appreciated them in the past—and even from her, they had received an "Ooh, pretty," on occasion.
It was not easy, coming back to life. Many days, it took a conscious effort to look around him and be deliberately stunned by the sights he saw every day, and even more so to push himself to interact with others more than was strictly necessary. But it was worth it, for every week he made a little bit of progress.
The best part by far was remembering Eithryn again. This was not without pain either, but he did find himself, now and then, imagining what she might have said to some ridiculous situation and laughing out loud.
The hardest part was losing Legolas, however temporarily. That worry, that missing presence, he did not know how to ignore. But Eithryn would have wanted that chance for the young prince; had she lived, she would have taken him on many adventures like the ones she and her brother had gone on in their youths.
…Whatever had happened to Coryn, anyway?
"King Thranduil?"
Ah, here was the elf he had been hoping to see—young Tathor. Or, not-so-young, as he was far older than Thranduil had been when he married Eithryn. And with him was Silana, as was often the case. Of course, both had an interest in the elf whose status Tathor was to report on. "What news?"
Tathor gave him those sad eyes he was so good at, something like Galion's best weapon against Eithryn tracking mud in the house. "She's about the same. Still not eating very much, and hardly sleeping. Sil's been staying in her quarters since last week," he added.
Silana nodded. "I am not sure what to do, Your Majesty, besides wait."
"No signs of fading, though," Tathor piped up. "I remember you asked me to check. Her situation's not that bad—she hadn't fully bonded to Kili. She should be okay in a few years, but we shouldn't rush her."
"Let her grieve," Thranduil agreed, pacing. He had been repeatedly reminded that normal grief was healthy, and that Tauriel's reaction was not at all unusual. He still worried, though. He felt a sort of bond to her after her experience, never mind a drive to make up for his contributive role in the dwarf's death.
That, and she was, after all, Felrion and Kilvara's daughter. Eithryn would surely have convinced him to take her in, and raise her as Legolas's sister, rather than merely helping to provide for her from a distance.
After probing for more details from Tathor and Silana, Thranduil decided to check on her for himself, particularly because he also wanted to make sure a dear friend of his was taking care of himself. Of course, Taensirion had Lanthirel (and Galion, who worried to Thranduil about the situation every evening), but as—according to Tathor and Silana—the two were in the same place, it would be efficient to check on them now, would it not?
He found both of them in the place Tathor directed him to, in a carved-out hollow about as wide as some of the forest's largest trees, half-filled by a glittering waterfall. Though the pond in the hollow was often used for swimming, Taensirion and Tauriel were alone at the moment, sitting on a stone bench along one side. Tauriel was perched on the very end, turned away from Taensirion—who was obviously trying not to glance at her in concern too often.
Both had shadows under their eyes, but contrary to expectations, Taensirion's were more pronounced. When Thranduil reached the two, he raised an eyebrow as Taensirion lifted his head dolefully. "No need to attend my inspections tonight, I think. Go home and rest."
Taensirion nodded and sighed, and stood, interpreting the instruction correctly as an immediate order. Tauriel paid no attention to him as he cast a sad glance back at her, then trudged away.
Thranduil began to turn away, but paused at the suspicion that Eithryn would want him to do more. In fact, she would likely be quite annoyed, were she somehow watching this.
Be friendly, orc-brain. Don't just walk away! She's sad! Sad people need friends.
Yes, that sounded about right.
Still unsure of what he was going to do, Thranduil stepped obediently backward and took Taensirion's vacated side of the bench. Tauriel eyed him, startled. It had been months, yet she still was not certain what to think of this new side of him. Few elves were.
Hmm. What would Eithryn do? Hug her? Be goofy and try to get her to laugh? Neither seemed appropriate.
It had been so long since Thranduil had considered how to help an individual elf… Which was terrible, now that he thought of it. He made an effort to focus. What did Tauriel need to hear?
"You and I are lucky to have Taensirion," he noted finally. He noticed the aforementioned elf, not yet out of hearing, pause momentarily in the corner of his eye. Tauriel, facing the other way, did not notice.
Tauriel sighed. "Yes."
He raised an eyebrow. "Is that all you have to say?"
"I—ah—should there be more, my lord?"
He was, after all, her king. What did he expect? Eithryn had gotten around that by merely not acting like a queen, but what could he do?
He thought.
"He just doesn't understand," Tauriel blurted.
Ah. He did not need to say anything persuasive this time, it seemed. "No?"
"He's never lost—I mean, I know his father died," she corrected, blushing. "And he has told me all about his friend Gladhan. But it is not the same, is it?"
Yes and no, thought Thranduil. It had been far easier to lose his parents than Eithryn, yet still so very difficult—especially his mother, when he was in fact slightly younger than Tauriel. Did she know he had also lost a parent quite young?
But no, he could not argue that it was the same to lose a spouse as a parent. He could not imagine anything worse than losing Eithryn, except for one thing.
Ah.
"He nearly lost a daughter recently," Thranduil mused, as if to himself.
Tauriel blinked at him. He could see her trying to determine when Silana had been in danger.
"I tried to take her from him," Thranduil continued. He had an urge to smack his head against the wall as he said it. What had he been thinking?
She still did not get it, he could tell. "That is you," he prompted dryly.
"But…"
"He does think of you that way," the king assured her before she could form a protest. "I should hope you have noticed."
But Tauriel squared her shoulders and turned to him, all ready for a rebuttal—and saw Taensirion standing not so far away, still listening.
Thranduil turned his head, in a leisurely manner, to regard Taensirion as well. The advisor shrugged sheepishly and nodded.
"Taensirion tries to adopt any elfling who comes close," Thranduil remarked. "It would have been near-impossible to stop him and Lanthirel taking you in. It is not only elflings, either; he has stealthily attempted to do it to me, as well, over the years. I expect he would speedily adopt even Alagon, if he could."
"It is different, though, with you and Feren," Taensirion murmured to Tauriel. "Whom we raised for the latter part of your childhoods."
Tauriel bit her lip. "Taen."
He looked down at the stone floor.
"I… appreciate everything you have done for me, of course. But I am Silvan. My parents were Silvan."
"So is Feren, and Aleinia, and so was Feren's father," Taensirion argued gently.
Where had she gotten this perception, Thranduil wondered, of Silvans being so separate from Sindar? It was too common a belief, true, among the common elves, nearly all of whom were pure Silvan. The Sindar came from Doriath, and set themselves up as leaders and kings; they were easily taken as separate. But she should know better, from Taensirion and Lanthirel raising her.
He pushed aside the uncomfortable thought that perhaps he had pressed that very idea on her a little too hard, to restrict her ambition and keep her from becoming too close to a certain prince.
Such a conclusion might be supported by the rare hint of resentment in Taensirion's sideways glance at him.
"The queen was Silvan," he admitted.
Tauriel's brows furrowed. "You said, about Legolas—"
"I said nothing. I merely agreed with your statement that I would not allow you to… well. I said nothing about his ancestry, nor the significance of yours." She had expected he would not allow her, a lowly Silvan, to be with his son. He had merely chosen to agree with the statement rather than clarifying that he was nearly paralyzed with fear at the thought of Legolas marrying, and then losing, anyone.
He could almost hear Eithryn shouting at him from Valinor.
Taensirion had come back near them to ask the obvious question. "How did you not know?"
"Well…"
"You must have known she grew up with your parents," Thranduil agreed. "Wherever did you think she came from, the stars?" That would not have terribly surprised him, but nonetheless…
"It is only that St—Silana told me that Storm did not look Silvan. She thought… perhaps he was not. Or, that is what I thought she meant," Tauriel said hurriedly.
Thranduil frowned at her. Coryn, not Silvan? He had looked perfectly Silvan to Thranduil. Unusual, perhaps, with the metallic hair and bright eyes he shared with his sister, never mind the stripes—but a few other Silvans had copper or bronze hair, and what other elven race had striped hair, that might indicate he was of their blood?
Taensirion coughed. "But that is not important, Tauriel. What is important is that Lanthirel and I do not expect you to forget about your birth parents—of course not! But we wish you to see that we are here for you in that way, if you need us," he finished hopefully.
"I have known elves who considered themselves to have multiple parents," Thranduil prodded. "Not least, Feren and all three of his sisters." Feren considered Taensirion and Lanthirel to be his parents along with his birth mother, Aleinia, and his deceased birth father, while the girls, particularly Silana, considered Aleinia a second mother.
"It does not matter much what you call us," Taensirion added quickly. "We only want to help you however we can."
"What Taensirion is saying," translated the king, "is that he—yes, and Lanthirel—love you very much. Whatever they are to you, you are their daughter."
"Yes," Taensirion agreed, ducking his head.
Tauriel swallowed, fighting back a sniff. Slowly she nodded, then lunged off the bench into Taensirion's arms. He embraced her warmly, resting his chin on her head and closing his eyes.
Thranduil smiled and disappeared around the corner before they remembered he was there. How was that, love?
He imagined Eithryn pumping her fist in the air.
. . . . . .
"His wound is turning red," Legolas worried. "And it is hot and swollen."
Elrond chuckled and pressed a poultice to the teenage human's injured knee. The boy—who did not yet know his true identity, nor why the prince of Greenwood was living in Imladris—was known currently as Estel. "Strider" was a forgotten childhood nickname, at least to all but Elrond's sons, Elladan and Elrohir. They still assured Legolas they would make sure the name cropped up again in Estel's life one day.
"It is only a mild infection, Legolas," Elrond assured him. "Easily treated."
"Mild? It is so much more prominent than any infection I have ever seen."
"That is because you have known few mortals."
"I think I will live," grumbled Estel. Though good-naturedly grumpy about his current injury (sustained while rock-climbing with Legolas and "the Els"—as Legolas called Elros and Elrohir), the boy was actually impressively mature for his age. Legolas was convinced that humans must grow even faster in mind than in body, as an elfling who appeared the same age would surely get into more trouble than the reluctantly-Elrond-approved activity of climbing large boulders. Legolas would be surprised if he did not, indeed, grow to be a great man.
. . . . . .
"Legolas."
"Father." Legolas bowed low, and upon rising, was startled to see his father beaming. Had he ever seen that much joy on Thranduil's face before?
"And this is the man you spoke of in your letters," the Elvenking remarked, descending gracefully from his elevated throne. "Estel."
"Aragorn," Legolas corrected softly.
Thranduil nodded. "It is good to have a name—the proper one—and a face to put to it. Well met, Aragorn, ward of Elrond."
The human bowed too.
"Now," the king continued, suddenly businesslike, "Prince Legolas, I shall require something of you."
Legolas shifted warily. He'd only just gotten back—was he to be sent away again? "Yes, father?"
"A hug. A large one, in fact." Thranduil held out his arms.
With a laugh, Legolas ran into them. Something was different about his father—yet this version of Thranduil was somehow familiar.
"And then I shall throw you to the wolves," Thranduil murmured, squeezing him.
"…What?"
"LEGOLAS!"
The prince squealed as he was tackled by a small yet powerful blond elf—pinkish-blond, in fact. "Tathor!"
"You're back! We missed you—hi, Legolas's friend—and you've got to tell us everything!"
"Even the things you said in your letters," Silana added. "We want to hear them properly."
"Please," Firith put in politely.
"I've already made cookies to eat while we listen," said Galion.
"And invited everyone," Taensirion noted. "Hello, Estel."
"You are welcome as well," Lanthirel told the human. "There are plenty of cookies to go around.
"I bet you can't beat the human in a wrestling match," Caliel bet Feren.
Legolas chuckled. "Wolves, Ada? More like puppies."
"Have you never seen wolves greet one of their own?"
. . . . . .
"An elfling, eh? Now?"
"It's become a tradition, lately, to have a child soon after the tribe lost an elf. Or that's what Raven's been saying," Flint told Storm. (Curled up at Flint's side, using his thigh as a pillow as he and Storm cooked breakfast, was his wife Rain; a certain silver-haired pest was dozing nearer to Storm. Swift claimed that his attempts to shoo her away were halfhearted, and ignored them.)
"Raven might have an ulterior motive."
"A what?"
"I think Raven wants a great-grandchild."
Flint wrinkled his nose. "Since when does he like elflings?"
"I think he likes certain elflings more than he lets on."
"Hmph. Either way, it'll be a few years, of course. But soon."
"I'm trying to imagine you as a father." Storm waited a few moments, then… "Awwww."
"Mhm."
"Mmm," said Storm contentedly, picturing Flint rocking a baby and finding it a truly adorable image.
"Your turn soon?"
Storm threw a pebble at him.
"Anyway," Flint continued, "that made me think."
"Do tell."
The half-human turned something over in his hands—a long, glistening, curved blade with an intricately carved hilt of red stone. "My father never used this again after he came to the Avari, but he said I might someday have a better use for it than he ever did. A true enemy to fight."
"That sword's in good shape for lying in a cave for thousands of years. It's got to be enchanted."
"With magic the Easterlings have long since forgotten, yes."
"Interesting. And you want me to teach you to use it?"
"Practice with me, anyway. I've learned enough from playing with your swords." Swords that Storm had needed to replace a few times over the years, but conveniently, one of the best smiths in Greenwood was a friend of his. "And it could be useful, the way things are going."
"Can do. Might see if anyone else wants to join in," Storm added, glancing over at Swift—who'd already pestered him into teaching her. "Can't hurt."
You will notice that at the time of posting this is Chapter 99.
