"I wanted to apologize for my behavior," Rúmil quietly spoke as he led Aragorn through the long hallway that led to their recovery rooms. "I never meant to add to your distress, but it is clear to me that I have. Your daughter's care should have been delegated to some other elf who hadn't destroyed any hope of trust upon their first meeting with you."

"Your actions since have more than made up for the offence," Aragorn said, graciously. "Nenna told me you are the reason Legolas was able to receive his father's blood so quickly."

"Even still, I was selfish, and I am sorry. When they arrived here and Nenna needed someone to feed your daughter right away, I was perhaps too eager to take on the job."

Rúmil was wringing his hands, his left thumb unconsciously rubbing circles into the back of his right hand. It reminded Aragorn of some of the hobbits' more awkward mannerisms, and he found himself warming to him for it. It was a rare thing to see an elf behave in such a vulnerable, unguarded way, especially toward a human.

"Nenna said you have more reason than most to wish for time with my daughter," Aragorn said, gently. "Am I right to assume you lost a little one?"

Rúmil gave a small nod, and for a moment it seemed that he wished for their conversation to end there. But then he began to speak again, his tone wistful, if slightly detached.

"It happened long before you were born—before even your brothers were born. Twoscore of us were returning to Lórien from a war council with our kin in Eryn Galen only weeks before the gathering of the Last Alliance. I was expecting a child with my husband, though my time was yet more than a month away. We were within ten miles of our borders when we were ambushed by an unusually large band of warg riders.

"The encounter was brief, but our losses were great. I was struck to the ground, taking injury to both my head and my side, and my husband was slain as he stood over me, protecting me from further harm. I was rushed back to Lórien by those who survived, many of them ignoring their own injuries, so focused were they on saving me and my unborn child. But my womb water was leaking, and I was in the most terrible pain. Before long, my body was demanding me to bear down."

Rúmil's fingers absently traced a large, half-moon scar on the back of his right hand, near the base of his thumb.

"I held off as long as I could, trying and failing to spare my saviors the sounds of my muffled screams as they bore me home. It was Nenna's gentle, coaxing voice that finally convinced me it was time to let go. It took two pushes, maybe three. I only remember that it was quick. My daughter was already asleep when Nenna drew her from between my legs."

"I'm sorry," Aragorn murmured. Rúmil gave a small, gracious nod.

"I wanted to die; I should have died. For over a hundred years, I spent most of my waking hours lying in bed and staring at the wall. It was my brothers who kept me alive, looking after me in turns. Then one day, Nenna came to my room, took me by the arm, and forced me up. Our Lady's daughter had returned to Lórien for the birth of her twins, and she was in labor. Nenna needed an assistant—someone to look after one twin while she delivered the other. She could have asked anyone to do it, and I told her so. But she was stubborn. No, it had to be me; she could trust no one else with the task. And so I was there when the first elfling was delivered and Nenna coaxed his first cries from him. Then she passed him into my arms, and a small part of me…"

Rúmil shrugged, and he suddenly seemed more human than elf, looking as helpless and hopeful and fragile as any man Aragorn had met.

"What?" Aragorn breathed, hardly above a whisper.

Rúmil's lips turned up into a soft smile. "…A small part of me healed."

He stopped at the next door, then hesitated, meeting Aragorn's eyes.

"I must warn you, Aragorn. He does not look well. He may sleep for a long while yet," Rúmil said. A sudden fire lit his eyes, of determination and hope. "But he will recover. I swear it to you."

He turned the handle and pressed the door open, allowing Aragorn in first.

The windowed room was sunlit, though the gray shades were mostly drawn, giving the room a dusky appearance. Legolas lay upon the single bed against the opposite wall, a simple wooden chair placed beside it.

He had been bathed and dressed in a shirt made of silver silk, his hair neatly combed and rebraided. Despite all that, his eyes seemed dark and sunken, his lips still too pale. The bed he lay upon was far larger than was necessary, which made his lithe body appear even more small and fragile.

Aragorn clenched his jaw, fighting back tears that he knew would continue to come too easily. Legolas had proven time and again that, even heavy with child, he was the most tireless, unyielding, and unshakeable member of their company. Only two days ago he had been slaying wargs, orcs, and trolls with practiced ease, all while carrying his precious burden safely within. It hurt to see him so weakened now; a deep, aching pain in Aragorn's chest that seemed to squeeze tighter the longer he looked at him.

Before he could go to him, Rúmil touched him on the arm, his face apologetic.

"I need to take her once more, if you will allow it. I want to make sure she is fed, cleaned, and changed before leaving her with you and Legolas. Then the three of you may rest uninterrupted."

"I would prefer it if I were allowed to care for her," Aragorn said, though he was careful to keep his tone respectful.

"You will be, and very soon," Rúmil assured him. "Both you and Legolas need time to rest and recover. It is the duty of our healers to see to the needs of your family while you are all at your most vulnerable."

Aragorn nodded in acceptance, surrendering his daughter once more into the hands of the devoted healer. Rúmil opened the door to leave, but Aragorn called after him, a sudden thought occurring to him that he couldn't help but voice.

"You said a part of you healed when you held my eldest brother. Is it the same with my daughter? Has she helped ease your pain?"

Rúmil was silent a moment, his scarred hand hesitating on the elegantly carved door handle. He looked back at Aragorn.

"I have been Nenna's assistant for nearly three millennia. Every elfling I have helped her save has lightened the burden in my heart." The elf smiled, looking down at the child held in his left arm. "But your Lassig has certainly been the most unexpected blessing of them all. I think she has captured the hearts of all who have seen her—a welcome distraction from the darker matters that have occupied our minds of late."

He left then, shutting the door quietly behind him.

Aragorn sat down in the chair beside the bed and reached out to take Legolas's hand. It was warmer than expected, and he took a long, steady breath as he felt a slight give in the tension deep within his chest.

"I'm here, meleth," he whispered. "Our lassig will be back in your arms very soon. But I need you to keep fighting for her. She needs to hear your voice again."

Legolas remained silent and still, each breath coming so slowly that Aragorn feared any one could be his last.

"Still sleeping," a soft voice spoke from the doorway.

Aragorn turned his head sharply, immediately recognizing the smooth, silken tone. Thranduil had changed into an outfit more appropriate for waking hours, though the ornately embroidered green tunic and trousers he now wore were vastly toned down from the regalia he had been clothed in the last time Aragorn saw him.

The Elvenking swept into the room as if it belonged to him—as if the whole forest belonged to him—and went to stand by Aragorn's side at the head of the bed.

"Mae govannen," Aragorn greeted with as pleasant a tone as he could muster. Thranduil must not have been fooled, as he scoffed softly in response.

"Indeed," he murmured. His touch was gentle as he reached out to smooth blonde hair that didn't need smoothing, his jaw tightening as he took in the sight of his son's weakened form. They were both silent for a long moment before Thranduil spoke again.

"When he was born his mother was so drained that she fell into a deep sleep for more than a month. The healers were unsure if she would ever wake again."

"He will wake," Aragorn said firmly, defying Thranduil to disagree. But Thranduil nodded.

"Yes. I believe it in my heart as well." His hand alighted on Aragorn's shoulder, and he squeezed gently. "Come. There are matters we need to discuss in private."

"We can discuss them here," Aragorn, said, keeping his eyes on his lover's sleeping form, the pallor of his slightly parted lips, the too-slow rise and fall of his breast.

The fingers on Aragorn's shoulder went rigid, digging suddenly and painfully into his flesh.

"Now, Aragorn."

Aragorn stiffened under the steely grip, but refused to budge from his seat, Legolas's hand still held tightly in his own.

"Fine. The hard way, then," Thranduil muttered.

Aragorn shouted in pain as Thranduil dug his fingers in deeper and lifted him fully by the shoulder, thrusting him toward the open doorway. The force of it had Aragorn lurching into the hallway, Thranduil already close on his heels.

"End of the hall," Thranduil commanded. He gave Aragorn a shove that sent him stumbling several feet ahead of him. Aragorn quickly regained his footing, one hand on the sore, bruising flesh of his right shoulder.

"Walk."

Aragorn obeyed, his face burning with shame and rage. He was unwilling to fight back—not against one whom Legolas loved, and especially not in a place of healing. Clearly, Thranduil had no such reservations.

They reached the last room in the hallway, empty but for a chair and a bed with a set of fresh linens folded atop it. With one last glance into the abandoned hall, Thranduil quietly slipped the door shut behind them.

"Go on, say your piece," Aragorn spat. "Your son is alone in there."

"Rúmil will be back with my granddaughter soon," Thranduil said coolly, and Aragorn did not miss the subtle gibe in his choice of words. "I merely wanted to confirm that we are in agreement where my son and his future are concerned," he continued.

"Then there is nothing to discuss, for I hold no control over Legolas or his future," Aragorn said.

He tried to push past Thranduil, reaching for the door, but the Elvenking casually grabbed his arm and wrenched it back, strong enough to hurt, but not quite enough to injure. An icy bolt of fear lanced through Aragorn as it became clear that, whether he fought back or not, Thranduil would remain in complete control.

"But you do, you fool. Now sit," Thranduil practically growled. Still holding onto Aragorn's arm, he dragged him toward the one chair in the room, twisting his wrist in such a way that he was forced to lower himself down into it.

Aragorn panted with relief when Thranduil finally released his hold, and he quickly decided it would not be worth it to move until Thranduil said whatever he had come here to say.

"Now then," Thranduil said genially, as if he had just handed Aragorn a cup of tea rather than forced him bodily into a chair against his will. "As I said before, I wish to discuss my son's future—and your place in it."

He took a seat on the bed as regally as if it were a throne, his unadorned hair still set perfectly in place.

"I blame myself for not noticing the extent of your relationship sooner. I had seen the two of you retreat behind closed doors a few times last year, but you had been so long apart that I assumed he had tired of the novelty of fucking a mortal."

Aragorn's fists clenched at his sides, and he felt his cheeks burning at the indignity of Thranduil's words.

"I am not some whore to him," Aragorn said through his teeth.

"Oh, I never said you were," Thranduil said, but his tone was mocking. "And as you well know, he hadn't tired of you. No, indeed. You had put a child in him. A child that he chose to carry."

"He didn't know—"

"Yes, yes, so he told me," Thranduil said with a dismissive wave of his hand. "Even still, our kind only conceive and carry by our own will. I do not believe she would exist if he felt nothing for you. If he didn't love you." He said the word so grudgingly that its very meaning seemed altered.

Aragorn could not help the look of surprise he gave Thranduil then. But Thranduil just rolled his eyes, shaking his head with an annoyed sigh.

"Yes, Aragorn, I am acknowledging that his feelings for you are genuine." His face darkened. "But that doesn't change what you now must do. In fact, it will only make it more difficult."

Aragorn's blood ran cold.

"What are you saying?" he asked, fearing he already knew the answer.

"I'm saying it's time you released my son from this thrall you have him under," Thranduil said, his voice cold and sharp as an icicle.

Aragorn shook his head, slowly.

"No. There is no thrall, nor is there deception in my heart. My feelings are as true as his." He met Thranduil's eyes, feeling a small flame of defiance flow through him. "I love your son, Thranduil."

Aragorn saw a flash of rage in the Elvenking's eyes, but it disappeared quickly, replaced by the same mocking expression he had held moments before.

"Is that so? Tell me, Dúnadan: what makes you think you could ever be enough for one of our kind, much less the son of the Elvenking?"

I'm not enough. I never will be.

Aragorn shook the dark thoughts from his head, the same thoughts that had constantly spun through him from the moment Legolas had revealed their child to him, reaffirming his love and pledging his heart to Aragorn. It wasn't surprising that Thranduil's beliefs mirrored his own deepest fears.

"I will admit I have wondered the same thing hundreds of times over the last few weeks. The truth is I don't think I will ever be enough," Aragorn said. He raised his head ever so slightly, his shoulders straightening. "But Legolas chose me anyway, for better or worse."

"Typical. Selfish," Thranduil said, his words dripping with disdain. "It seems you're as shortsighted as the rest of your miserable race." He paused a moment, turning his head toward the door. "Rúmil is back."

"Lassig," Aragorn murmured, and Thranduil looked at him with a curious tilt of his head.

Moments later there was a short knock at the door, and Rúmil entered the room without waiting for a response, the elfling held in one arm.

"Is everything all right?" the Galadhrim asked, looking from the Elvenking to the man sitting uncomfortably in the room's only chair.

"Everything's fine," Aragorn said. He reached out with both arms, and Rúmil quickly lowered the child into them.

"We had important matters to discuss and did not wish to disturb my son's rest," Thranduil added, pleasantly.

"It is as his majesty says," Aragorn said. "We will rejoin Legolas in just a moment."

Rúmil met Aragorn's eyes, his brow furrowing with suspicion. Aragorn gave a small shake of his head, subtly flattening the palm of his right hand toward him, fingers slightly splayed.

We're safe. You need not interfere.

Rúmil gave a small nod, then bowed deeply toward Thranduil.

"The child is fed and changed. Please send for me if there is anything you require," he said. He left without another word.

"What a pity he wasn't her father instead," Thranduil said, staring at the door. His tone was sincere, despite the cruelty of his words. He glanced back at Aragorn. "Rúmil told you what happened to him, didn't he?"

Aragorn gave a stiff nod.

Thranduil's expression was distant when he spoke again.

"It was Rúmil's loss in particular that both angered and rallied King Amdír and the elves of Lórien. My own father wept when he heard what had happened, how cruel and bold Sauron's forces had become. He began gathering our armies that very day, and when Gil-Galad and Elrond's hosts arrived from Imladris, my father and I joined them. I am certain you already know what became of Oropher and his elves during the terrible battle that followed."

Aragorn nodded again. He knew the histories well, though he had never known how great a part revenge played in the Silvan elves' reckless attack on the plains north of Mordor.

Thranduil looked at Aragorn again, his expression soft.

"Do you love her?" he asked, inclining his head toward the sleeping child in Aragorn's arms.

"How can you ask me that?" Aragorn said, fiercely. "She is my daughter. I would lay down my life for her."

Thranduil gave a short, approving nod.

"Then you understand how I feel." His face hardened again. "He nearly died. I almost lost my son because of you. And what's more, you have taken a piece of his future from him. A piece of eternity."

Aragorn swallowed; his mouth had gone dry.

"You've spoken with Nenna," he said, hoarsely.

"Yes, the midwife informed me of the damage done to him. If not for you and your arrogance, Legolas might have had more daughters." Thranduil's eyes were bright with unshed tears when they suddenly met Aragorn's. "He would have had a son."

Aragorn's eyes widened, despite himself.

"What? How would you—?"

"Did you think it was only your foster father who sees glimpses of the road as it splits and turns?" Thranduil said, one corner of his lips curling upward in a mirthless half-grin. "Why do you think I am here now? It was only weeks ago that I woke from a dream where I saw my son bleeding to death among golden leaves."

Aragorn looked down, and his voice trembled when he spoke.

"…I never meant him any harm."

"No harm indeed." Thranduil scoffed. He stood then, leaning over and bringing his face uncomfortably close to Aragorn's. Aragorn could feel the Elvenking's warm breath on his ear when he spoke again, his voice soft and sharp as thin, crackling ice.

"You are a poison to my son, Dúnadan. A poison both sweet and slow to kill. And I have a duty as a father to save him before it is too late."

Aragorn took a slow, shuddering breath, his blood like ice in his veins. The truth he saw in the Elvenking's words cut him deeply.

"What would you have me to do?" he asked, his voice small as he averted his eyes from Thranduil's looming form.

Thranduil straightened, appearing to grow to an even greater height, reddened eyes turned down on the man. It took every ounce of Aragorn's courage not to fall out of his chair and flee the room, but he held firm. He knew Thranduil wouldn't dare touch him while he held the child.

"You will go to him, and yours will be the first face he sees when he awakes. You will assure him that all is well. You will hold him and comfort him," Thranduil said, his tone unnervingly soft.

"…And when he is strong again you will leave him. It will be abrupt and cruel—he will suffer heartache strong enough to kill. But his love for her will keep him alive until the ache becomes manageable, and the wound on his heart will close, then scar, then perhaps even fade with time. If you bear any love for him, you will do this and never look back."

"What makes you so certain I will obey?" Aragorn asked, bitterly.

"Because if you don't, he will die. But you already know that. Even if you were to survive this war—which I doubt—you would still meet your inevitable fate a mere century from now, perhaps more, perhaps less. Legolas would despair and follow shortly after."

Thranduil reached out, his hand lightly stroking the curls of dark hair on the child's head. Aragorn's face was streaked with silent tears when he looked up, and Thranduil's expression now held only sorrow and regret.

"She is a beautiful child," Thranduil said, echoing the first words he had spoken to Aragorn when he had arrived in Lórien. "The most wonderful and lasting gift a mortal like you could offer an elf prince. Let her be your parting gift to him."

The Elvenking turned and left.