Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

He did not weep. He had, in the beginning, hoping that tears would move his friend to mercy, but Zelda’s heart had been filled with the cruelty of her ideals and her righteousness. She had explained over his cries the good that his sacrifice would bring. For once he could not be trusted to do what was necessary, so she would help him. She would enforce her will upon him to yet again save Hyrule.

Link had already sacrificed so much.

He rolled over on the bed. It was comfortable. Everything about his cell was comfortable. There was a plush carpet covering the cold stone and books to read by the bright candle light. A plush chair was set aside to read in with a small table that could be moved so he could sit to solve the puzzles that were constantly rotated in. High quality food came regularly and the lights magically dimmed on a set schedule to allow him to sleep. 

A pretty cage for a pampered pet. 

He had given up counting the days he had been locked in here. It had become easier to tell the passing time by the wrinkles engraving themselves into Zelda’s face, in the number of strands of her hair that were streaked with age. His own countenance remained that of what it had been when Zelda had cursed him into one last duty, trapping him at seventeen forever or until was felled. 

He could not be killed if he was locked in a cell beneath the castle. 

He tapped the collar she had fused around his neck, blocking the magics he had been granted upon him by the fairies. He had made the mistake of explaining how he was able to carry so much and she had stripped him off his bag as well. He had nothing but what she gifted him with and she was so careful to not gift him anything useful. 

Link sighed. 

The scuff of light footsteps had him turning his head to the wall that was made entirely of bars.

“Hello, Link,” Sonia said, her voice carrying the same notes of sadness it always had since Zelda had explained the fate of her friend. Sonia was old enough now to understand both cruelty and duty. 

But Link was so desperate for company, to be in the presence of someone and while Sonia would inherit the responsibility to jail him, she had, at the very least, never betrayed him. And she made for good company. 

He sat up on the bed and gave her a little wave and a soft smile before walking towards her and sitting on the floor. She mirrored him, as had become their tradition. “Would you like to play cards?” she asked, pulling out a deck. “Sheik has taught me a new game.”

Sheik. Another friend, another betrayal. While Zelda had been an authority who had asked for his help, Sheik had been an ally, a touchstone in a world that had left Link behind and turned to madness. In the calm that had followed he had been a friend, maybe more than that. They had travelled together as Hyrule healed, sometimes with their fingers interlocked as though they held a promise of the future. While Sheik had aided Zelda in Link’s capture, he had never come to visit Link’s cell. He was either a coward or there had never been anything real between them. 

Link was unsure of what would hurt worse.

Pushing his bitterness aside, Link's hands flew as he spoke. “ I would enjoy that,” he said, though he did not bother to wipe the bitterness from his face. He knew as well as Sonia did that their friendship was a forced and fragile thing on a time limit, a candle burning down to its wick in the darkest of night. 

Sonia’s eyes dropped as she shuffled the cards and Link felt his stomach drop. It was not her fault, at least not yet, and he did not want her own guilt to drive her away. He was so lonely with not even the breeze to keep him company. Zelda was his only other visitor and her goals were always to convince him that she was correct and to ensure that he still had no path to freedom. They were hardly stimulating social calls. 

He snapped his fingers to get her attention again. “ Sorry, ” he signed. 

“You have no reason to be sorry,” Sonia said, her eyes lacking the calculation that had always dominated Zelda’s expression, even when they had met as children.

The cards danced in her hand before she began to deal, passing Link’s cards through the gap in the bars. She walked him through a single hand before they played for earnest, her exchanging tidbits of gossip for Link’s victories even as he kept his silence. What did he have to tell her about his day, though she had much to say. An illness was wracking the kingdom. It was not killing as many as they had feared it would but it swept through the populace like a fire through dried branches, leaving many weakened for weeks. While the Sheikah were seemingly immune, the castle was affected and the guards were cut thin. Zelda was stressed by how vulnerable the castle was and had been doing her best to suppress that information before she too had taken ill. 

She would survive, which was good because Sonia was not ready to become Queen, but Hyrules’ safety depended on the ignorance and grace of her neighbors.

Link hummed along as he played, winning a suspicious number of hands, before Sonia reclaimed the cards. He had always been clever but Sonia’s attention was elsewhere so he was not surprised when she stood suddenly. “I am sorry, Link, to cut our time short, but you may keep the cards,” she said pushing the boxes through the bars, “but with Mother recovering the court turns to me to fulfil the obligations of the crown.”

“ Of course, Your Highness. ”

“Once again, it is just Sonia to my friends.” She looked turned her gaze, her eyes distant, before they snapped back to Link with a piercing look that he had seen on Zelda’s face many times. “I know that my presence in your life is forced, but I do hope that, if not now, then in the future you will consider me a friend and that you will remember me fondly.” 

Link nodded, a chill running through him at what sounded like a final goodbye. While their relationship was doomed to fall into bitterness, Link was pathetically grateful to Sonia for the time she currently gifted him with.

But words had never been his strength. He rose to his own feet and bowed far more deeply than he ever had for Zelda. What was there for him to say? Was he to comfort her as his circumstances grew too hard for her to bear, as though she had no agency in the situation? No. Link would keep his own council and not let an ending warp the memories that would likely be the only comfort to carry him for decades to come. 

He rubbed a finger over the back his left hand. 

“Goodbye, Link,” she whispered and practically fled, the swish of her skirts echoing as she slipped away.

He sighed, each footstep that carried her way like the sound of a lock clicking shut. There was little for him to do. He had been deprived of choices for decades at his point. 

He bent to grab the box of cards, surprised by the way the weight shifted as he lifted it. He gave it a shake to hear something solid knocking around. Curious, he opened the lid and tipped it. 

Nothing fell out. 

He slid two fingers into the box, feeling metal and leather. With clever fingers he pinched and pulled, the metal object hitting the carpet while the leather stayed caught in his hand. His mouth fell open. 

On the floor rested a key. 

In his hand was his bag. 

His eyes blurred and warm tears fell down his face, dripping off his jaw, as he felt something he thought gone forever: hope. His hands shook as he lifted the key and the urge to slam it into the lock was nearly insurmountable, but he did not know if Zelda monitored it with magic, and moving against her recklessly would only end with him here again. Perhaps someplace worse, if she was feeling particularly vexed. 

But he held the ability to escape in his hand. 

He would go, when the lights grew dim he would flee. The guards would be… The guards had taken ill. The castle was vulnerable. Never would there be a better chance for someone to sneak in…or out. Zelda was preoccupied with her own health and even if she were able to react it would be unlikely for her to force a direct confrontation, likely hesitant as to whether or not Link would be willing to strike her down and with no intention of her own to take him in anyway but alive. 

“ Thank you, Sonia,” he said even though she was not there to see even though Link would hopefully never see her again. “ Farore, ” he called upon the Goddess who held him closest, hoping for one more gift. “ Please guide me through this trial. ” 

He cocked his head as a breeze that could not exist ruffled his hair and music echoed in his ears. It was a soft song, made of the rustling of branches and the laughter of children, the bobbing of fairies and of dark voices daring the unwary. 

It was a path. Link would have to be the one to walk it but he knew where his footsteps should go. 

“ Thank you. ”

X-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x

Link had made his move the moments his lights had dimmed. He had cinched his pouch to his belt, an arsenal at his fingertips, but he did not draw anything for the same reason he wore the one of the ridiculous outfits that Zelda had always left him. Better to appear a curious noble than an assassin or spy.

The castle remained unchanged and Link had snuck through the winding corridors often enough, even when heavily guarded, that they gave him no trouble. No, it was outside that he had his first stumble. 

There were stars. Bright and burning in the sky. It had been so long since he had seen any form of natural light and they were so beautiful, hung by the Goddesses themselves. Link wanted to glut himself on them. 

“You shouldn’t be here,” a rough voice cut through Link’s euphoria, ice sliding down his back. The guard to his side was young, younger than Link, though he held no pep. Either overworked, the end of his patrol, or in recovery from the illness Sonia had warned Link about, put to work too soon. No matter which way he looked tired and sloppy. His helmet was tucked under an arm, guarding absolutely nothing, while his hand was wrapped loosely around his weapon. It was a show of intimidation but with no intent to draw.

Link pointed up and the guard took a step closer, trying to see through Link’s eyes at what had caught his attention. Link snagged the man’s helmet and before he could protest, slammed it into his face. He barely caught the body as it dropped, lowering him slowly down to the ground to avoid the sound of falling metal. With a look around, noting he had been alone on patrol, Link dragged him to the nearest bush, rolling the guard beside it so he was mostly swallowed by shadows. 

The clock was running sooner than Link wanted it to due to his own stupidity. Of course there would be stars but this would be the last he would see of them if he was caught again. 

He dropped, creeping along the path he had in childhood, keeping an eye out for movement. Sonia was right about their being significantly less guards and Link. The blind spot on the hill was still unwatched, though Link’s descent down it was anything but graceful. It must have rained earlier in the day and he skidded down, mud soaking into his silk pants. He winced, knowing that he would now leave tracks, but there was little to be done. 

Zelda, in all her infinite wisdom, had not thought to clear the vines from the cliff face with any degree of regularity, obviously assuming that none but the Sheikah held the talent to clamber up them, but Link had been raised in the embrace of the forest. If there was one thing he knew how to do it was climb. 

On the last step he rolled onto the cliff, unwilling to stand lest the stars outlined his shadow. A slow crawl, the vines down, and then he was racing down the path to the city. 

Had Link not learned his lesson at the stars he would have stared. The buildings had grown both in height and splendour with wooden signs having been replaced with metal that gleamed in the low light. Actual glass glinted in some of the storefronts, and a new fountain had been carved to reach new heights, a figure holding a sword aloft in the centre.

Given the way the sword’s guard flared he had a bitter suspicion on who that carving was of. 

He pushed it aside. It did not matter. What mattered was the guard resting against his spear is the centre square. Despite his posture his movements were deliberate, alert and ready for danger. Link was ready too. 

He reached into his pouch, his fingers wrapping around a handful of deku seeds. It had been long enough that the shells felt unfamiliar in his fingers. Clenching his hand for a brief second, he glanced around, the glass catching his eye again. WIth a quick prayer that the store did not belong to the friendly Bazaar owner who had sold him his first Hylian Shield, Link whipped the seeds. 

The sound of cracking glass was enough to catch the guard’s attention, letting Link slip down an alleyway. His feet dragged him closer to the outer wall until his hands rested against the rough stone, letting it guide his destination, eyes high, hoping nothing had changed and there! A wooden beam stuck out of the parapet, a rope lazily hanging from it. Link had seen them use it to haul supplies to the top of the wall that surrounded the city. 

While the rope was hardly secured, he had other ways of reaching the top. He pulled out his hookshot, noting that it still fit as though it had been made for him. It should not have been a surprise. 

After all, thanks to Zelda he hadn’t changed.

It fired with a whisper but the chain clanked as it retracted. Link forewent wincing at the noise. He was close. He was so close. 

He hauled himself over one parapet to lean over the next, studying the moat. Even in the dark he could see that fog was beginning to rise off of it.

Good. 

He needed a spot to jump from though. It was the other side of the city that had the grate that made the moat easy to scramble out of. 

“Link.”

He glanced up to see broad shoulders and a face hidden by a white shroud. Even in the dark Link could see the crimson in his eyes.

Sheik. 

Link jumped, the water catching him in its frigid embrace. Kicking his legs he allowed the current to pull him along, knowing that Sheik would watch to see where Link resurfaced before making his own move. But Link had been blessed with friends in his travels, and he could feel the Zora’s scale enhancing his body, giving him the strength to kick as his lung clung to the air they had been given. He popped his head up with a gasp as a shadow fell above him.

The drawbridge.

Oriented and with a goal, he dove again. The current sucked him towards the grate and he did not stop kicking until he felt the bars grace his fingers. He surfaced, feeling for the low spot and grabbing onto the wet stone. It was wet enough that he was able to pull himself up the way he had a child. He could hear the clamber of horses and voices yelling on his right but on the left he could hear the rustle of leaves.

He stumbled towards a small patch of trees he had planted with Zelda and Sheik after Termina, needing to create life in a land where death had haunted his every step, hanging above his head as time trickled away. It was hardly a forest but it did not need to be. Link may have been a Hylain but he would always be Kokiri first.

They had grown tall enough to embrace him. 

“He’s there!”

Spotted. 

It did not matter. 

The wind whispered and the forest called. It did not matter. The trees were there. 

There was a familiar explosion, the smell of smoke and sulphur. He could feel fingers whisper against his close, just missing. He spun on instinct, throwing a deku nut and being rewarded with a hard cry. Staggering, off balance, a hand against a tree righting himself. The woods called him deeper, music filling his bones like air in his lungs. The little woods outside the castle should have ended by now and it would have had Link been in them. No, his feet carried him down the paths that only the Kokiri knew.

“Link, stop!” Sheik’s voice cut through the song of the forest, spurring Link on.

He felt the impact, heat, and then pain as something buried itself into his hip but he could not stop . He would not be a prisoner of the Royal Family for eternity. He stumbled, the song physically pulling him forward as though it had hands, before staggering into silence. The sound of pursuit was gone but he was not safe. The Sheikah were talented and treacherous and he would not be fooled or lured into complacency. He needed to run.

He needed to run. 

He needed to…

Strong hands caught him as he pitched forward. Link tried to pull back, to free himself, but a numbness he had been denying stole his leg from beneath him. As he fell he looked, staring at his captor’s face. 

It blurred and Link’s head spun. Poison. He had been poisoned. 

And now he was caught. 

A strangled whine escaped his chest along with the brief hope that he would have someday seen the sun again. 

X-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x

Legolas’s laughter joined a sweet chorus as he spun, passed from partner to partner, the sweet taste of mead wetting his tongue. The year had started anew and while yesterday had been spent in reflection, Yestare was met with good cheer. Even the most stoic of countenances were touched by merriment and the feast had given way to singing and dancing under the stars. For those still peckish, the fresh bounties of spring and sweet cakes had been set out on the table and jars of heavy wines that would blur the night of the unwary sat innocently. As the youngest present there had been two warring parties; those who sought to protect Legolas by handing him cups of mead and those who were seeking to ply him with a stronger brew. He passed on the latter.

Tonight was too beautiful to lose due to indulgence.

The weather was perfect, the breeze carrying the scent of flowers and fresh growth while the stars shone all the brighter for the moon hiding away. No clouds snaked across the sky and beyond the festival of the Elves the forest sang with life, as though it was untainted as it had been ages ago. Perhaps a bit superstitious, but to Legolas it seemed a good omen for the year to come. The Elves of Mirkwood could use such a thing as the Shadows in the forest darkened. 

A hand caught his, pulling him free of the dance and Legolas laughed breathlessly, allowing himself to be guided by Míwen, knowing that she only had one destination. 

“You are a millenia older than me, Míwen,” Legolas said as he allowed himself to be pulled along. “Surely you do not need my supervision to sample the kitchen’s offerings.” He flashed her a cheeky smile. 

Míwen scowled but did not blush. “I have not had a single honey cake. Ornor guards them from me as though he is a Dwarf on his hoard.” 

“Or,” Legolas said, a smirk playing on his lips, “he knows if he does not watch them you will devour them all in a single bite.”

Míwen tutted. “I have three more years of being forced to patrol under Maendir and we will all be lucky if he does not have an accident at the tip of my bow.” Legolas did not blink at the threat. Míwen had always been wild, even for a Silvan Elf, and it showed not just in her skills with a weapon but by the way violent words poured off of her tongue. Legolas doubted there was a single Elf in the kingdom that she had not threatened, either behind their back or to their face, and she had never done anything more violent to her people than challenge them to spar. “Honey cakes are the only thing that will extend my patience in dealing with his buffoonery. I do not understand why the King allowed him to climb the ranks.”  

“Maendir has his own talents.” He was not the most adept with a weapon nor was he the keenest scout, but he was loved by the trees and they were often willing to warn him of danger they would otherwise remain silent on. It was an important talent that saved lives but Míwen was not one to see that and Legolas had given up trying to convince her. Her eyes were keen but the way she saw the world was very narrow and most of the Elves still considered him a baby, despite his majority having come and gone. His opinion was not one that would sway her. 

As expected, she ignored the comment, and instead slipped behind him to push him forward towards the table, where, sure enough. Ornor stood with his arms crossed. “I suppose you are here to fetch honey cakes for Míwen,” he accused Legolas with exasperation. 

“He is fetching a honey cake for himself ,” Míwen called from over Legolas’s shoulder. 

Ornor looked less than impressed. “My Prince, she has already had four.” 

“Four?” Legolas asked, half turning towards Míwen  so he could raise his eyebrows at her.

“One,” she hissed. “Only one.”

Ornor began to count on his fingers. “You had one from the table. You also stole one right out from Duirro’s oven. You convinced Sîrnith to use you as a taste tester and bullied Amdirchand into letting you carry a basket to the banquet.”

Legolas chuckled. “It sounds like Maendir will have a long life.” 

Míwen poked Legolas in the side. “I want another honey cake.”

“Oh,” Legolas held a hand to his brow dramatically, “you would order your Prince? Lay your hands upon him in violence over a honey cake? What treason has swept through my Kingdom?”

Ornor snorted, clearly amused despite himself even as Míwen poked Legolas again. “Give me a honey cake and I will distract Coth so that you might flee.”

Legolas spun and sure enough Coth was making his way towards them, two cups in his hand. Legolas had no doubt one was for him with a vintage that would send him from cheerful to befuddled by the time he reached the bottom of the cup. A problem, especially since Legolas had no love of Coth and the other Elf either did not realize or did not care to notice, instead content to waste both his and Legolas’s time with advances of friendship. 

Coth was tiring and not a problem Legolas wanted to mar his night. “A honey cake,” he ordered, Míwen preening in victory beside him even as Ornor reached for the treat. 

But whatever words the Elf said were lost under the whisper of music that pulled at Legolas’s attention. He took a step, tilting his head to hear the music better. It was a haunting tune that was not coming from the musicians of the festival but instead the woods themselves. Made of wind and children’s laughter, it greeted him and he could feel it wash over him, wash through him the way a winter breeze cut through clothes.

A hand grabbed his shoulder and for a moment he was aware that he had taken a step forward, toward the treeline. 

The music swelled with a thousand voices, ancient and wise, young and naive. It was full of promises and threats, of gentle teases and vicious taunts. It was kind, it was cruel. It was in time to Legolas’s heart beat. 

Or perhaps his heart beat was in time to the music. 

Voices called to him. “Lego- hear me?”  

“My Pri-”

“Fetch- King!”

He pushed the hand aside. “Do you not hear that?” It was so loud that his words were swallowed by the song, the breeze whipping his hair frantically. He took another step forward, and then another, until he stood at the treeline. The tune was manic now, the notes trying to claw their way into Legolas’s skin. He could practically see the song, green swirling on the edge of his vision. It was cresting over him, sweeping him away. It grew impossible loud, impossibly large. 

And 

then 

it

cut 

to 

silence.

Into his arms fell a boy who looked like he straddled the cusp of becoming an adult. He was no Man, though, nor was he an Elf. He was pretty in the way that Elves tended to be but his ears came to almost exaggerated points and an angle much harsher than Legolas’s own people. He also bore no fëa, the only light on his skin was that cast by the festival and the stars. 

He practically collapsed in Legolas’s grip and turned his eyes up to meet Legolas’s gaze before a scream of pain and despair tore its way from the boy’s throat and for a moment Legolas was desperately glad that the boy was not Elven, for any Elf that made such a sound would surely fade. 

The boy slumped and Legolas snaked an arm around to catch the body so he didn’t just fall to the forest floor. His grip was weak, plagued by the slick mud that seemed to cover the boy nearly head to toe. 

Hands tried to pull the boy from Legolas’s arms, making him clutch more tightly. There had been more than physical pain in that cry and Legolas could only hope that even in unconsciousness the boy knew that the Elven Prince would keep him safe. 

“Legolas!” His Adar's voice cut through a stupor that Legolas had not recognized. “He is injured. You must release him so that the healers may tend to him.”

He blinked, realizing only now just how heavy his head felt. He did not wish to relinquish the boy but his Adar had always had good counsel for him. Coupled with the fact that it was Galben who was easing the boy away from Legolas,  Galben who had tended to Legolas through the worst of his own pains, the Prince found it within himself to let go. 

The moment the boy was free from his arms, Legolas stumbled back. It was his turn to be caught, Thranduil clutching his youngest in a soft grasp. “Legolas, can you hear me?” His voice held an unfamiliar urgency. 

“I hear you,” Legolas answered, feeling as though he were at the bottom of a pond staring up. 

“What happened?” His adar grabbed his arms, his firm grip grounding.

“There was music,” Legolas answered, his gaze straying towards the forest where the stranger had emerged. Scouts had already claimed the area, bows drawn as they examined the forest for clues Legolas doubted they would find. Míwen was there, a honey cake between her teeth. The oddness of that sight made him blink before his mind slid away, trying to focus on everything and nothing.  “There was music and wind and then the boy.”

It was an understatement. Legolas was a poet; he was an Elf, but the words to truly describe what had happened were beyond him. 

“A gift.” Maendir murmured as he stepped out of the hole the boy had emerged from, bow still in hand. 

His Adar’s grip tightening for a moment in displeasure. Usually he had more patience for Maendir’s riddles, for he could only relay what the trees said, but Legolas knew his own involvement would test Thranduail’s patience. “Explain.”

Legolas was not surprised when Maendir shook his head. “He is a gift. The trees will say no more.”

“A gift from whom?”

Maendir shrugged. “Perhaps the Valar. Perhaps the forest itself. Does it truly matter?”

Legolas looked to his Adar’s troubled gaze.”The festival is over,” he announced, surprising very few. “Come, Legolas,” he said, clasping his hand and pulling him along as though he were naught but a child. Legolas did not ask where they were going, still feeling out of sorts, but behind him he heard Míwen.

“That is one way to start the new year.”

Chapter Text

The trees were bleeding spiders.  

Legolas sat in the Halls of Healing, singing songs that his Emil had passed down to him before her death, hoping that they would bring the stranger some comfort though he did not know if the boy could hear him. The blade that had been pulled from his hip was strange, thick where a normal knife would be thin and it had been notched for poison. A coward’s weapon and Galben had unsurprisingly claimed the blade tainted, though the wound looked healthy enough. The healers had come to the consensus of sedation and not poison and that the boy was likely more valuable alive. 

Mocking laughter echoed through the forest, the voice crackling with dark satisfaction. 

Given the other clues they had, it made the most sense. His garb had been fit for a king; silk embroidered with intricate patterns stitched with gold. It was as clever as any Elven made garment, though it had been utterly destroyed by what must have been a harrowing flight, with mud caked into the fabric and ragged holes matching the scrapes on the boy’s body. The only bit of jewellery had been a collar, though it had been strange in design. Elaborate engravings had highlighted a singular sparkling stone that was unrecognized by any who had been consulted, it had been designed so that it could only be removed by two sets of hands, one of which needed to be armed with a pin. With no knowledge of the value of the stone, they could only guess at its worth.

He stretched out his hand, armed with cold familiar clay. 

Galben had removed it to ensure easy breathing and had tucked it away from curious eyes, leaving him dressed only in Elven robes.  

The nearest tree exploded, bark sloughing off like skin as spiders poured off the wood, swallowing the forest floor.

This combined with the soft smooth hand free of warriors’ callouses told a story of someone of station who had likely grown up surrounded by creature comforts. It was difficult to gauge how well he would handle his new circumstances. Legolas knew his Adar would extend every courtesy he could without making concessions of his own authority. While the trees had promised Maendir that the boy was a gift Legolas knew his Adar was not comfortable with the proclamation. Not all gifts were safe and not all gifts came from friends. The forest had grown too dark of late to blindly allow a stranger a voice in the kingdom, no matter what his station. 

He sucked in a breath as they rushed him, placing the tip against his lips even as something grabbed him and Link-

The boy shrieked as he bolted up, hands tangling in his long blond hair as to block sound from his ears. Though the scream cut off his shoulders heaved with heavy sobs, the boy’s knees curling to his chest.

Legolas moved from his chair to sit beside the boy on the bed and gently pulled him into his side. The boy did not resist and instead slumped into Legolas. Emboldened, Legolas carefully wrapped his arms around the boy’s shoulders and began to rock him ever so gently, humming the first lullaby his Emil had ever taught him. It did not take long for the sobs to die off into sniffles. Legolas continued to hold the boy and hum until he pulled away of his own accord, wiping at his eyes with the heels of his hands. 

“You are safe here,” Legolas promised even as Galben swept in.

“I need to see if you tore open your wound,” he explained, placing his hand on the boy’s back.

The boy blinked up with large blue eyes, the shape of which was enhanced by the angle of his ears. Legolas was certain that any Man who met the boy would confuse him for one of the fair folk, although a short one. Legolas did not know if that was typical for the boy’s race or if he simply had more growing to do.

In response to Galben’s words the boy made a complicated gesture with his hands and Legolas felt his heart drop as the situation grew more complicated. “You do not speak,” he stated. 

The boy looked frustrated and repeated the same gesture, albeit slower. 

“Can you hear?” Legolas asked, the question accompanied by Signing. While Men rarely bothered to learn, Elves were taught as they grew up. Not only was the language perfect when a voice would give way to danger, Elves were not immune to illness and wounds that could steal words. 

The boy repeated the same hand signs, though Legoas was fairly certain that, if not the direct translation, the spirit of the gesture was clear. 

I do not understand.

Galben snapped his fingers and the boy jerked, trying to twist to see behind himself but he put a hand on his shoulder and held it firm. “He has not reopened his wound,” he announced, “and his hearing is fine. Perhaps try Westron.”

“Do you speak?” Legolas repeated. The boy made the same gesture so Legalos switched tongues again. Though he was not as old as some, he knew quite a few as his Emil had thought it vital to his education. With luck he would never be the King of Mirkwood, but that did not preclude him from becoming a leader in his own right. Yet each try was met with the same gesture though it continually grew sharper with each repetition.

Recognizing defeat, Legolas pointed at himself. “Legolas.” He signed his name as he spoke. 

The boy pointed at Legolas and repeated the sign flawlessly before he pointed to himself. He flared his fingers and made circles with his index and thumbs that interlocked and gave them a slight tug. Legolas echoed the gesture carefully. He had the boy show him three times before he was satisfied he had it correct.   

He did not know what it meant, but there was a similar gesture in Signing that stood for lif. The closest name was Liphen. Hopefully it would do. “Liphen,” Legolas said as he repeated the boy’s name. 

The boy frowned and cocked his head, worrying his lip with his teeth before he gave a shallow nod, accepting the name as his own until they could better understand one another. Liphen’s next gesture was at least easy to understand as he pantomimed holding a pen and writing in the air.   

“Galben,” he signed as he spoke, “could you please send someone for something to write with?”

“Certainly, Legolas,” he replied, hands moving smoothly. 

Legolas did not see who he passed the task onto and instead focused on teaching what he could, pointing out basic objects. He had moved from the bed to a water jug when Galben interjected again. “Teach him in Westron as well. Men do not Sign and if they cannot understand him he will at least be able to understand them.”

“That is wise,” Legolas agreed, annoyed for not having thought of it himself. The boy was no Elf and they did not know if he had even been created by Eru. There was little doubt he would be bound to a mortal life, though perhaps extended like the Men of Numenorean. Though Maendir stated the boy was a gift there was no promise that he would fit with their people, that he would choose to stay. He knew his Adar wished to treat him more like a Man than an Elf.

The more languages Liphen knew, the safer he would be. 

He pointed back to the bed, giving yet another word for it. Liphen nodded and Legolas was confident that he understood a third language had been added to the mix, but instead of looking overwhelmed he looked invigorated by the challenge. Perhaps he was a scholar of some kind?

Soon enough a pen and parchment appeared. Liphen snatched them almost desperately, setting it onto the table and scratching fast. 

There were two distinctive drawings. One was a well rendered sketch of a leather pouch while the other was merely a stick figure floating under a circle. “Galben,” Legolas called, hoping a second set of eyes would see what he missed. 

Galben leaned over the drawing, studying it. “We took that pouch off of him when we removed his clothes and I had everything kept. I will fetch it along with his collar, though it is strange for him to ask for an empty bag first.”

“Do you know what the other picture means?”

“No.”

Legolas passed the drawing back to Liphen and tapped on the stick figure, shaking his head to indicate his confusion. Pen hit paper once more as Liphen fed the image details. He added a picture of the Sign for his name and an arrow to point at the stick figure. The circle had a rim of triangles and crude grass with a childish tree now adorned the picture. Liphen pointed to himself, then the image of himself, and then the sun.

Legolas signed the word for each before he shook his head. “No sun. You are too injured.”

Liphen frowned and pointed at himself before viciously jabbing the sun.

With a sigh Legolas took the pen and circled where Liphen had been stabbed less than a day ago.

Liphen waved his hand as though he could brush the wound away. Hand in a fist he used his index and middle finger to imitate someone walking before slowing the gesture down in exaggeration and for a moment wondered if this is what healers constantly faced. He had occasionally pushed for his own release too quickly but his brother was always there to chastise such behaviour before Legolas could stir up too much of a fuss. Given the forest had handed Liphen to Legolas, he did not believe having his brother here would aid in the direction of this conversation.

Legolas took the pen and circled the wound harshly, shaking his head. “Wounded,” he repeated. 

Large blue eyes looked up at him in devastation, as though Legolas had snapped a favored bow and spat on the pieces. Liphen’s lip jutted out in the slightest of pouts and his hands gripped the blanket tight. He looked utterly ruined and though Legalos knew he was in the right, guilt stirred in his stomach. 

Footsteps whispered behind him. “What have you done?” snapped Galben. 

“Merely told him that he is too injured to wander outside,” Legolas turned to study the healer if only so he did not have to bear Liphen’s broken look.

Galben looked to the ceiling as though the Valar would come save him. “Of course a stubborn child would fall in my lap, though I will take this as a sign that he feels no pain. His body bears no great scars so this is likely the worst wound he has ever taken.” He shook his head. “One step out of that bed will teach him what your words may not.”

Legolas cocked his head. “Perhaps his effects will distract him?”

Legolas wilted under Galben’s judging stare. “He is likely a teen, not a child. Dangling objects before him will not work.” Still, he held out the collar and the bag, placing both on the bed. 

Liphen grabbed the collar, studying it for a critical eye. Legolas thought perhaps he was looking for damage. 

Then Liphen flung it with shocking strength into the stone wall. 

It hit the floor in two pieces. 

Legolas blinked in surprise and turned back to Liphen, half expected the bag to endure similar treatment. Instead Liphen clutched it close to his heart like a token, though Legolas could see nothing special about it. It was plain, with no elaborate stitches and as far as he could tell it was empty.  

Liphen caught his curiosity and pulled the bag closer, twisting away as though Legolas meant to snatch it from him. 

Gablen held both his hands up in surrender. “Peace,” he said and Signed. “We will not take that from you.” The boy glared before flopping onto the bed, curling around the bag as best he could as the language barrier barred any reassurance from being effective.

Legolas went to place a comforting hand on Liphen’s shoulder but Galben caught his wrist and shook his head. “Come,” he said, releasing Legolas. “We will need to discuss this with the King.”

“You think he was already a prisoner when he fled?” Legolas asked. It was the conclusion he had come to and was not surprised when Galben nodded. 

“Maybe he was held by enemies, maybe he was trapped by station, but the collar meant nothing good to him. The situation will need to be navigated carefully.”

Legolas nodded, casting one last look over his shoulder where Liphen remained curled, his waking having brought only more questions.

X-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x

Link buried his face in the pillow, eyes shut as he focused on listening. Though Legolas and the healer had left, no doubt to report to someone about him, they had hardly left him alone. The room was large and beds had been sectioned off by cloth curtains, but he could hear the gentle cadence of their language rise and fall as though they were speaking in the way of rivers. Link did not know if that was the true nature of the tongue or if it was Link’s impression only because all words that had been offered to him had been done so in kindness. 

Even the denial of his chance to see the sun had come from a place of caring, but Link could not tell them that the nonsense with his hip was hardly the worst wound he had taken, the most pain he had been in. Volvagia had seared his skin and his first strike against the Barinade had sent lightning up his bones. Skull Kid had cursed his body with an agony Link wished upon no one, his form compressing horribly as his skin hardened into wood as he transformed into a Deku Scrub. 

No, this was nothing.

And it would not slow him down.

The voices were still talking softly so he slowly pushed himself into sitting. The conversation did not stutter in flow so he took to his feet, a few steps carrying him close enough to see the woman who was having the conversation, likely with another patient, angled away from him. He was closer to the door than she was. 

He walked slowly, partly so as not to tear open the stitches that pulled at his back, but also so as not to catch her attention. He managed to place one hand on the door without her noticing and gave the wooden frame a push. 

A very amused looking guard blocked his way. She moved her hands in a way that was frustratingly foreign to Link, her words equally incomprehensible, but he knew that tone. That was the sound of the guard who had called him Mr. Hero, the shop owner who had sold him a shield that was his own height. It was Talon offering to let him marry Malon. 

That was the sound of an adult who found a little rascal adorable. 

Link could not have stopped the scowl on his face for all the rupees in Hyrule. She looked as young as Legolas and Link had no doubt that he was older than the pair combined, though how he counted his age had grown more complicated the older he got.

Her eyes positively twinkled in mirth and as she spoke Link caught a familiar word. Bed. 

He shook his head. “ No. Sun. ” He had no desire to fight these people, as so far they had only shown him kindness. They had removed that wretched collar and had healed his wounds and normally he would be content with that, but he was surrounded by hewn stone and he had spent decades underground. He was armed and motivated. He would see the sun before this day ended. 

The woman gave him a wolfish grin, her hands dancing and her tone daring. She grabbed Link’s shoulders and manhandled him until he was leaning against the wall. She flicked his nose cheekily, the way Cremia would have, before disappearing into the room Link had just escaped from. In no time at all she returned with a wheeled chair. 

Pointing down, Link learned a new word. “Sit.” He did as instructed and the woman grew smug. She pointed at herself. “Míwen.”

Link made the sign for his name and she nodded. “Liphen.” He didn’t know if that was what the gesture was actually called or if it was an approximation of his name but there was nothing to be done about it. He nodded his head, once again accepting the foreign name as his own. 

With a hum she circled behind him and began to push the chair. It travelled smoothly down the stone floors and Míwen chattered away, the word Maendir crossing her lips often enough that Link was beginning to catch that it must be another person. She was plaintive when she spoke of him and Link got the distinct impression he was being used as a kind ear despite not understanding a word she said.

The stairs were an obstacle and a fight. Link insisted he could walk them while Míwen insisted she could carry him up, at least he assumed that was her side of the argument. Considering she grew exasperated and threw him over her shoulder he begrudgingly conceded defeat as she took a step forward and not back towards the healer’s room. 

He only huffed once she sat him back at the chair at top. She laughed and ruffled his hair, Link tilting his head to try and chase the touch. How long had it been since he had been touched with comradery? He did not remember, having taken such things for granted.

Míwen must have sensed his turmoil for she rested her hand in his hair a moment longer than expected, before she pulled away and gave an excited cry as she pushed the chair forward at great speed. 

Link laughed. For the first time in decades he laughed. It twinned with Míwen’s and Link immediately knew she was a troublemaker at heart. Apparently he was as well, though mischief had found him or had been surprisingly necessary to achieve his goals. It made it easy to keep his face smooth and guileless whenever they were stopped, staring wide eyed as Míwen spoke quickly, boredom lacing a tone that had been mirthful moments ago.

It was enough to get them through a heavy metal door that was etched with flowing script and reaching trees. Míwen pulled out a key and unlocked it with a dull click. She pushed it open and Link stumbled out of the chair, making it only four steps before his knees hit the dirt as the sun hit his face. 

It was so warm. He had forgotten that, the way it touched his skin as though it were a pair of hands holding his cheeks. A breeze drifted, carrying the scent of flowers and rustling the leaves of nearby trees. He could hear birds singing away merrily as though they carried no woes of their own. His fingers touched the ground, fresh and healthy earth pressing into his palm. 

He was outside. He was outside. There was no Zelda, no Sheik, no guards dogging his footsteps. Just him and the entire world.

Míwen whispered and gently pulled him to his feet and for a moment Link thought to struggle because he had been perfectly content where he had been, but instead of dragging him into the chair she led him down a path. When she guided him back to his knees he was in a patch of grass surrounded by bushes and sunlight. She took a spot beside him and reached into one of the bushes, pulling berries free. 

She popped one into her mouth before offering one to him. 

He took it greedily. 

It was Spring. With the slightest pop it burst in his mouth, sweet juices dancing across his tongue. It was like being a child again, foraging with Saria in the safety of the Lost Woods, back when his greatest source of suffering had been the childishness of Mido.

He wept. 

From the pain of what Zelda had stolen.

From the joy of having it returned. 

A figure settled itself on his other side and something soft was passed into his hands. He blinked up at Legolas and expected to find frustration or condemnation, but there was only kindness in eyes. 

Míwen practically threw herself across Link’s lap, her hands making grabbing motions the way a child’s might and Legolas smirked as he passed her a pastry. He pulled one for himself and took a small bite as he too shifted his gaze towards the sky. 

Link took a bite of his own. The same berries Míwen had offered him sweetened with fresh honey filled his mouth. The cake itself was far more simple than anything Zelda had brought to him, as though her sins could have been washed away by complicated fare. It was something he might buy at the market stall. Simple food for simple people and Link loved it. 

He tilted his head back as he nibbled, watching the sky with the intensity of someone who thought they would never see it again. 

X-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x

When Legolas returned from speaking with his Adar, having taken a side trip to the kitchens, he was less surprised than he should have been to find Liphen’s bed empty. The initial panic was settled by the knowledge that Míwen was also missing from her station and there was simply no way that Liphen would have had the ability to overpower her while injured and unarmed. It took little consideration to divine where she would take him.

Perhaps if Legolas had not spoken to Liphen her tracks would have been hidden, with the few Elves who had seen her with boy having varied tales of their destination. He did not know if it was to provide him with some slight challenge or if Míwen told the tales simply for her own amusement, but he found her exactly where he expected her; in Emil’s garden. 

Though it had always been a space open to all and Emil had passed years ago, the garden had become known as hers. She practically lived there and Legolas had spent many years of his childhood learning about plants at her knees. He had been young enough to believe she knew everything about anything green that grew. She had shaped it, perfected it, so even the most weary of their people would find respite here. 

Míwen and Liphen were in the centre clearing, surrounded by berry bushes. The raspberries were already bearing fruits and blue honeysuckle would be next. Míwen was lazily eating the fruit while Liphen stared at the sky, utterly entranced even as tears dripped down his face. He stared as though he had never been outside before and perhaps he had not. They knew nothing about his circumstances.

Legolas could acknowledge that so far it seemed as though their assumptions had done more harm than good. 

He took a place beside Liphen, freeing a turnover from the basket to pass to Liphen, having to prod him for attention. For a moment stared at the pastry as though it were alien before looking to Legolas, studying him intently. He must have found whatever he was searching for because he turned back to the sky.

“Give me a turnover,” Míwen demanded softly, trying to balance her own sweet tooth with preserving the mood. Legolas rolled his eyes but gave into her demand.

“Only one,” he warned. “I brought enough for the boy to feast upon, not for you to glut yourself on.”

“Spoilsport,” she stuck out her tongue before taking a large bite, humming as she looked up. “It is a lovely day.”

He hummed in agreement, grabbing a pastry for himself. Liphen continued to watch the sky, entranced, and Legolas knew that his Adar was wrong. Liphen may not have been an Elf but he was like their people. The little time he had spent in Emil’s garden had already brought a peace to him that Legolas had not expected to see for a while.

Míwen, as restless as ever, pulled Legolas into soft conversation as she filled him in on the latest gossip. Some of which he knew, some he did not. At no point did he stop her but added to this conversation with his own tidbits or to interject with clarifying questions. It was mindless talk that faded away easily when Galben found then looking rather vexed. 

“He should not be out here!” he grumbled. “He is injured and recovering from poison. Míwen, you were supposed to guard him! And Legolas,” he snapped, “you know better than to follow Míwen’s lead.” 

Legolas did not wince but it was a near thing. He enjoyed their friendship but his Adar had told him that he was the one who brought common sense to it and if it was Míwen’s idea then it was likely a bad idea. Legolas thought that their attitude was a little extreme. 

“Calm yourself,” Míwen said. “He needed this as badly as any Elf who has spent too much time away from the sky. Tell me you do not see it.” Galben narrowed his eyes to look at Liphen. If it was not for the way he gripped at the grass, Legolas would have thought he was still ignoring them. Míwen clicked her tongue at his silence. “You did not see him. He would have tried to fight his way past me and I can assure you that would have caused far more damage than honoring a request to see the sky.”

“Fine,” Galben conceded, “but you must bring him in at a reasonable hour and make sure he is fed more than pastries.” He glared at them both. “Next time you will consult with me before flouting my advice. I am the healer. Not you.”

His footsteps, though quiet for a man, were loud for an Elf and Legolas winced at his displeasure. “He is going to tell Adar about this?”

“I have no regrets.”

Legolas watched Liphen, whose hands had relaxed. He could not say the same. That he had told Liphen no would stay with him for a while.

Chapter Text

Despite the indulgence Legolas and Míwen had shown him, Link expected consequences. He had obviously violated at least one edict set down by the healer and he expected that there were more that had come from the powers on high. He had yet to prove himself of enough value or deserving of trust to just be wandering willy-nilly. They did him the kindness of letting him sit under the sun until it began to fall past the tree line, the evening air cooling. 

But he was brought to the same room he had escaped from, still afforded the privacy of curtains. Míwen vanished, likely to face consequences of her own, but Legolas stayed after a short conversation with the healer. The man was obviously grumpy at their little excursion but there was a begrudging acceptance where most healers would be boiling with the insult to their professional pride. 

Still, Link was not keen on drinking the concoction he was handed, but Galben had placed his hands on his hips and Legolas had touched his own back and hissed, imitating Link’s growing discomfort, and he assumed it was medicine for pain. 

He tossed it back. 

Link blinked in surprise. Instead of bitter tang of potion, with their thick and slimy texture, the drink was herbaceous. A warm tea. It was not the most enjoyable of drinks but Link had certainly had worse laid out in front of him in the name of hospitality. It was also potent, the effects hitting him almost immediately. Warmth rushed under his skin, washing pains he had been ignoring away. The ache in his hip all but vanished and he could feel his muscles turning to ooze in the same manner that a hot spring would melt them. If he needed to he could still run like this, fight like this, but he would confess he had no desire. 

He closed his eyes even as Legolas pulled the blanket over him, and did not fight sleep as it stole its way into his mind. 

Link woke to voices. Legolas was still by his side and Míwen had returned looking suspiciously pleased with herself. For a moment Link wondered if he had only been out for a few moments, but he noted that both of them had changed tunics, making it likely that Link had slept longer than he thought. 

Míwen was the first to notice he was awake and she immediately began to chat about Maendir, though this time she sounded inordinately pleased even as Legolas shook his head in exasperation. Whatever conflict she had with this person seemed to have been resolved which was for the best though Link was still confused why he of all people had ringside seats. Given that she spoke freely in front of Legolas, she obviously had others to vent to, though Legolas also had the longsuffering expression of someone who had heard this story a hundred times. 

Still, Link was pleased that she was pleased given the risk she had taken for him yesterday.

Breakfast came around, a porridge filled with blue berries. It was slightly more tart than the fruit he had eaten in the garden though he had no complaints. It was warm and filling. 

After he was done with the food, a healer, different than the one from yesterday, offered him another drink. He took it reluctantly but was pleased to find that while it helped with the pain it did little to dull his senses. She touched him lightly, lifting the tunic to study the wound and though Link could not see it, she gave a pleased hum. He took it to mean that it was coming along nicely. He had always healed well and he doubted it would scar despite how deep it had been.  

Even more exciting was the fact that Míwen fetched the wheeled chair the moment the healer had indicated she was finished. Legolas must have explained where they were going, but all Link caught was sun . It was enough that he was positively vibrating with excitement. Picking up on his eagerness had Legolas laughing lightly. 

The path they took was different and longer, though they passed more people. Once again Link noted they all seemed to be of the same age, a trend that was beginning to strike him as strange. There were none that Link noticed to appear particularly young, which could make sense if working here was a position of great honor, but there was no one who was particularly old either. Link did not see a single face that was touched by time cruelly by time. No one carried laugh lines despite the way joy tugged at their faces and if Link had not known better he would have suspected them of being adult Kokiri. 

There was either a uniqueness about them or something sinister was afoot but Link would give them the benefit of the doubt for now, if only for his own sake. 

He needed to believe in the goodness of people. 

Stairs were easier to take with Legolas pulling the chair while Míwen pushed, neither of them letting Link climb up on his own. He accepted it with as much grace as he could muster, too excited to choose this as a battle to fight. Míwen and Legolas grew quiet, their easy chatter fading, and Link tilted his head, trying to figure out why. It took a few moments before something drifted down the hall. 

His mouth dropped open and he practically shuddered as they had given him the gift of something he had nearly forgotten. 

Music.

Link could hum but it was merely a shadow of the richness of an instrument, of the way a singing voice could swell to fill the space. Zelda had denied him anything that he might have played for fear that he would have warped to one of the Temples. He did not know if he could have while wearing that thrice damned collar but he would have tried and not felt a lick of guilt. Still, it would have been nice to have someone else come play. It would have been safe enough for Zelda’s desires and there would have been a kindness in it, though Link supposed that those thoughts were beyond Zelda. She knew what Hyrule needed and Hyrule had not needed Link listening to songs as he languished in a cell.

But Míwen and Legolas did not know Link and yet they brought him music. 

“ Thank you, ” he said in his own tongue. 

Legolas spoke and signed back, Link filing it away as a ‘you’re welcome.’

They pushed open the door and though eyes turned the song did not stop. People in casual dress sat at various tables, some of which were laden jugs of wine and offerings of fruit. Link could practically feel Míwen light up and he laughed as a man practically growled at her, pulling his own plate close. The room was hardly full to capacity but everyone was sitting close to the front to compensate, leaning towards the singers on stage. 

A woman plucked at the strings in a sad arrangement, the voices rising and falling in a lament, though the audience took great joy in the tune. Link’s fingers itched as he followed the sound in his mind, already mapping out where his ocarina might fit the arrangement but he was not yet ready to reveal his bag of tricks. No, his ocarina was safer in his pouch and his pouch was safer forgotten about. 

Still, his fingers twitched and he stared longingly at the lyre on stage.

The song trailed off and the people bowed before sliding into the audience. The woman with the lyre made her way towards them, greeting Legolas with a laugh. Their hands moved as they spoke, though Link was still far too ignorant to associate the gestures with their hands with the sounds from their mouths so he did not bother. Not when there was an instrument so close. He had never played a lyre but he imagined it was not so different from a guitar, with strings sitting there, waiting to be plucked. 

The woman laughed and crouched in front of Link. She asked him a question but more importantly she held out the lyre and it was only manners that prevented Link from snatching it like a greedy child. Instead he allowed it to be passed to his shaky hands, the trembling only subsiding as he plucked the first string.

It was a little different, well, it was very different than the guitar but Link had yet to come across an instrument he could not play. A warm silence had spread through the hall as people watched him and Link paid them no mind, strumming along until he understood what was in his hands. It did not take him long.

Confident, he began to play. 

Saira’s song sprang from his finger tips and the people in the room laughed in delight. In the corner of his eye Link spotted a pair that had even begun to dance to the robust melody, reminding him much of Darunia, though they were far more elegant than the flailing of the Goron had been. There was a grace that touched these people and Link was beginning to suspect that it was not something that had been trained into them. 

Someone began to sing, making up words to go along with the tune and others giggled before completing the lines that the person before had started. It was silly, a game that children might play, and it was a balm on Link’s soul. As the melody trailed off Link found his own face hurting from how broad his smile was, having little cause to stretch his lips for decades.

He was  out of practice in being delighted. 

Reluctantly he offered the lyre back to the woman and she just laughed and ruffled his hair, a habit that many seemed to enjoy. With a small wave to Legolas and Míwen, she joined a table, pouring herself a goblet of wine and falling easily into the conversation, leaving Link with a gift that could have been made of solid gold for the value it brought him. 

Legolas turned to him and spoke before imitating plucking his fingers and Link grinned, his hands taking up a new position. 

x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x  

Liphen was on his third song when Míwen leaned over. “You have done well by him,” she complimented, as though she had not been the one to sneak him out under the sun only the day before. 

Still, Legolas accepted the praise, not wanting to tiff with Míwen over something so small. “Yesterday I was treating him as though he were an unknown,” he explained, watching the boy grin in delight even as he was obviously lost in the music. “Today I have decided to treat him as though he was an Elf.” 

Míwen nodded. “Song, wine, and sunshine.”

Legolas laughed quietly so as not to disturb the song. It was more somber than the others he had played and Legolas could already see that across the way that Tithendir was mentally pinning words. Legolas had little doubt the next time Liphen played the tune it would be accompanied by a story of great tragedy. 

He did not think the boy would mind. 

“I do believe Galben would flay us if we watered the boy with wine. The brew Idhressel gave him is potent enough on its own. If we return the boy wine-addled we will likely be banned from the healing halls for decades to come.”

Míwen snorted. “You make it sound as though they would risk inconveniencing you.”

Legolas quirked an eyebrow. “I believe Galben would make me ride to Rivendel with only a single arm if I ever injured a patient in his care.”

With a hum Míwen tapped her lips, pondering. “That is true,” she settled on. “And if he would treat our youngest prince with such cruelty, what hope does the rest of us stand?”

“Who treats you cruelly?” came the harsh question and Legolas turned to see his eldest brother, Barad, studying him protectively. 

Legolas laughed. “No one. We were just speculating what would happen if we let harm come to one of Galben’s patients.”

Barad scoffed as he took a seat. “He would flay you and send you to the Dwarves for healing.”

Everyone winced. There was little love lost between Elves and Dwarves, though they had a tentative truce with those of Erebor. It mostly came from proximity and was for the sake of trade, tensions still high between the two people. The Men of Dale were often the once who facilitated agreements to prevent pride from interfering with what was best for all three lands. 

“Speaking of Dwarves,” Barad grabbed a goblet and poured himself draught wine, “they will be coming here in a month’s time.”

Legolas pulled a face. “What have we done to face such unpleasantness?” 

“It is the new Lord of Dale,” Barad explained, looking equally displeased. “He has it in his mind that a simple meeting is all that it will take to clear up the bad blood between Elves and Dwarves, as though the death of our kin did not lay at their feet. He is sending a contingent of his own men for these talks, though I do not know why he bothers. Despite our mutual disinclination for each other’s company, the trade agreement between Mirkwood and Erebor holds true.”

Legolas sighed. “Please tell me you are not here to lay responsibility in my lap.”

Barad sipped his wine. “No. Your episode in the woods has spread throughout the kingdom, as has the presence of the boy. Adar has explained that he is your responsibility and that nothing else is to distract you from that task. I wished only to see how you were handling it.”

“Well enough,” came the immediate answer. “Despite Adar’s worries of him holding delusions of station here, Liphen instead seems to react to any kindness with delight. Galben and I both told Adar this as well but I am certain that before he came here he was being held against his will.” The song changed into a harsh march, something a Dwarf might play, but the room seemed intrigued enough. “The language barrier is a point of frustration but it is only the second day. He seems smart enough that I doubt it will be an obstacle for long.”

“And what of you, Míwen?” Barad asked, leaning forward. “Are you as optimistic as my brother here?”

Míwen grinned. “That boy is made of fire and I have little doubt that he will be running circles around us soon enough.” She took a drink from her own cup. “I think guarding him will be the greatest challenge I have had in a while.”

“I thought you were on patrol duty with Maendir?”

“Fuck Maendir.”

Barad choked and sputtered, spilling wine on his breeches and Legolas looked despairingly at the ceiling. “She was reassigned,” he explained, “when she took Liphen on an adventure instead of ushering him back to his bed.”

“Best decision I have ever made.”

Barad sighed. “You have poor taste in friends, little brother, but it is better that she is your problem than mine.” He saluted with his goblet. “Nórui will also try to seek you out before the end of day.”

Legolas sighed. “She will fuss.”

“And you will let her.”

“And I will let her,” Legolas agreed, resignedly, already regretting an encounter that had not occurred. 

X-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x

They spent hours in the music hall, even after Link stopped playing as his hand cramped, and listened to the songs of Legolas’s people. They were beautiful. Beautiful songs from a beautiful people with beautiful voices. It was too soon to have any opinion but Link was already falling into the trap of wishing to call this place home. That being said it was probably the most common of his projected desires, of finding a home and a place to lay his head after his latest adventure, but he was always amongst people who were not his own. Too old to be a Kokiri, too strange to be a Hylian, and too Hylian to be anything else, he had constantly rotated in an effort to not overstay his welcome in any one kingdom. 

Eventually Legolas and Míwen sought fit to leave and Link’s disappointment was replaced by delight when they took him to the kitchen. He instantly became the centre of attention and was plied with fresh bread dipped in honey, sweets, and dried meats. His companions had obvious reputations with Míwen being treated like an unwanted pest, threatened away with a broom, and Legolas fawned over with slightly less intensity than Link. He bore it with good grace though Link watched him rub where his cheeks had been pinched when he thought no one was looking.

Next came the gardens. 

Link was less focused on the sun, this time able to take in the sheer abundance of plant life. There were berry bushes that already bore fruit and others that had flowers that were just blooming. Herbs, both that Link recognized and that he did not, had sprouts and were marked by little wood stakes. There were places where the dirt had been overturned, likely home to vegetables that would wake up in the fall. 

Beside the veritable jungle of food flowers that grew for the sake of having flowers lined the paths. They were cheery to look at, brightly colored and whimsical. Legolas caught his staring and he plucked one before braiding it carefully into his hair with gentle hands. Despite having known her for a day, Link should not have been surprised when Míwen did the same with two flowers. Soon he was the center of a competition and he had no doubt that he would look like a bush by the time he was done. 

 He knew he should protest if only for the sake of his dignity but the hands felt nice and he found himself relaxing into the nonsense, warm voices warming him as much as the sun. 

X-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x

Legolas was amused to see that he and Míwen’s antics had put Liphen to sleep, the lyre still clenched in his hands. It had been kind of Astordil to gift it to the boy. At first Legolas had thought him an amateur, touching the instrument for the first time with the curiosity of a child. His notes had seemed random and even off putting before he had coaxed a familiar song out of the instrument. 

It was the song of the forest, though without the desperate edge. Without it clawing at Legolas he could admit it was a fun tune and other under circumstances he would have joined in the cheerful dancing. Instead he had leaned back and listened. 

There had been much to listen to. Liphen had as long as a repertoire as any Elf and Legolas was certain that he would have played long into the night were he given the choice. Still, when his hands had failed he seemed content just to observe, bouncing his head along to the songs. 

But Legolas had promised Liphen more time in the garden today and though he was not certain the boy understood, Legolas was one to keep his words. Given the way that sunlight hit dark lashes, casting little shadows across a slack face, he believed it to be the best decision. Though it might not have been the sun as much as the casual touches. Liphen leaned into each one as though he were a horse desperate for pets. While Legolas eagerly awaited the day where they could understand each other he was also aware that Liphen’s story would break his heart. 

“Should we take him back?” Míwen eyed Liphen dubiously. 

Legolas could not help the judgemental look. “There is nothing wrong with sleeping under the sun.”

She clicked her tongue. “I more meant that the healers might send out a search party. We have been gone awhile.”

“Unlike some people, I do not kidnap patients. Galben knows where all I planned to take Liphen and when I planned to return. We have a few hours left and I would sooner wake the boy than leave here without his knowing.”

“Well,” Míwen declared obstinately, “If he is napping then I am napping.” With that she plunked herself on the nearest patch of grass and rolled onto her stomach. 

“Are you not supposed to be guarding him?” Legolas asked. In truth Míwen was supposed to guard against any tricks the boy may have and act as a guide for him in the meantime, but Legolas was more than capable, especially since the boy was sound asleep. 

Míwen made a rude gesture before burying her head deeper into her arms.  

Legolas rolled Liphen over to a bench where he could watch the bees as they clumsily climbed into each flower. To Legolas they had always seemed to hang in the air by force of will alone and he had spent an embarrassing amount of time believing that if he thought hard enough he could take to the sky like a bee. His Emil had laughed without mocking him and had told him as a child that she had tried to craft wings so she could fly like a bird. A bee was far more reasonable and, unlike her, Legolas had never broken his arm jumping into a patch of clover. 

“Legolas!” 

He did not sigh as his name was called and instead stood and opened his arms. Nórui slotted into them, clutching too tightly as usual. She pulled back her face full of worry, emphasizing the dead eye. “Adar would not let me see you! He said you fainted! You should not be wandering about!”

“I am fine,” he said firmly, for firm was the tone one needed to take when dealing with Nórui. Her inner scars were far more grievous than the ones that pulled at her face and it had been Lord Elrond’s opinion that she sail to the Undying Lands. She was not fading, not yet, but a madness was creeping in and taking hold. Legolas knew if he showed any kind of weakness, despite being a century older than him, she would throw a fit worthy of a child until he came to her quarters and he would be trapped there until the mood passed. 

Nórui did not know but Legolas and Barad had told their Adar that he should follow Lord Elrond’s advice, his own pride be damned. 

“The healers-”

“I am well, sister,” he promised. “I did not faint and Galben saw to me. I was merely disorientated by how loud the trees called.”

She turned and hissed at the nearest tree, clutching Legolas’s clothes. “The forest should not have done that!”

He patted her shoulder consolingly. “They are trees. We are Elves. Such is the nature of things,” he said lightly, trying to ease her.

“No,” She shook her head, braids flying wildly, and Legolas noted that her hair was unpinned. “No, death comes from the forest. We should not live here. We should not leave the Palace! You must come. It is dangerous , Legolas. I cannot protect you if you are outside; you must follow me to where it is safe!”

“Nórui…”

“NO!” She practically shrieked. “No, it is not safe! ”

Guruthanar, Nórui’s personal attendant, emerged from the path. “My Lady,” he said, and Legolas did not envy him his position. Apparently he and Nórui had been friends before the attack that claimed their Emil, and he had volunteered to watch her person ever since. There was a bravery in that and Legolas was not sure he shared it. He did not know if he could watch Míwen suffer the way Nórui did. 

“Guruthanar!” She pushed herself tighter into Legolas’s grip. “We are not safe. There are eyes in the trees! We need to leave! We need to go.”

“Of course, My Lady,” he agreed, holding out a wine skin. “Have a sip first. You will need your energy.”

She narrowed her eyes at the skin. “Legolas first! It is he the trees are after.”

Having done this before Legolas gamely took the skin, pinching it so even as he tilted it back no liquid poured forth. He passed it to his sister who drank deep. As she passed it back to Guruthanar a familiar fog had clouded her eye. “Guruthanar? Why are we in the garden?”

“You wished to visit your brother.”

She smiled dopely at Legolas before putting a hand to her forehead. “I am feeling tired.”

“I will escort you so that you may rest,” Guruthanar said as he grabbed her hand, pulling her along as though she were a child. 

Míwen had come to stand beside him and Legolas was not surprised. Elves were many things but they were not deep sleepers. “She is getting worse.”

“I know,” he murmured. She needed to sail. It was a harsh thought but it grew with every interaction. She was unwell and only growing worse. Lord Elrond said she was beyond his help which meant that there was no one in Middle Earth who could ease the burdens she carried.

It was only a matter of time before she grew dangerous.

Chapter Text

The next few days passed much the same way. Liphen would awaken, though he slept later each day, and eat. He would all but demand to be taken to Melinde’s Hall, play a song or two of his own, and then listen as though absolutely enraptured. Various people had come to pass on greetings and it was amusing to watch Liphen only truly notice those who had played or sang, accepting a quick salutation before his attention slid away to whomever held the floor. 

When Legolas grew bored, for he was certain that Liphen could live in the Melinde’s Hall forever, they would head directly to the kitchens for lunch, before heading out to Emil’s garden, though Liphen seemed to have more energy, which was beginning to be a problem. He was on his feet the moment eyes strayed away from him and Legolas knew that, if given the opportunity, Liphen standing would be the least of their worries.

In an effort to curb and control Liphen’s impulses, Legolas taught him what he could of their language and Míwen had the wisdom to bring along books with artwork, allowing for an expansion of what Legolas could teach. 

And Liphen learned, soaking the language up the way roots soak up the rain, which perhaps was not the blessing it seemed to be. 

“ I can walk! ”

“You were stabbed,” Legolas explained patiently as Liphen seemed to have forgotten that irrelevant detail. 

Surely enough Liphen rolled his eyes in displeasure. “ That was ages ago! I have healed and I wish to walk. ” Stubbornness ran in the line of Thranduil and Legolas could feel it stealing over his face. Liphen jutted out his own chin, determined to meet Legolas on equal footing. “ You cannot stop me! ”

“I most certainly can,” Legolas snapped, crossing his arms. He had never dealt with a child before. He was the youngest Elf in Mirkwood and he was beginning to understand why. Were all of them so bullheaded? If so he was amazed that Elves bothered to breed. Liphen had certainly killed any desire he had to bring his own child into the world.  

As though to prove his point, Liphen pushed himself to standing only for Míwen to grab his shoulders harshly from behind and pull him back. He overbalanced and tipped, landing back first on the bed. 

“Careful!” Galben snarled, pushing his way into the small circle. “Handle him like that and you will do more damage than he can by simply walking.” Míwen had the grace to look at least slightly guilty as Galben rolled a protesting Liphen over, hiking up his tunic. 

“It is too soon to walk!” Legolas protested and Galben stopped his ministrations to send Legolas a withering look, silently reminding the Prince of who the actual healer was. Legolas felt all of an inch tall. 

Galben fussed before going utterly still and Legolas felt his heart drop. How badly had they hurt him? 

“Hm,” said Galben. “Hmmmm.” 

Legolas and Míwen leaned forward. 

“Well,” Galben finally said. “It is safe for him to walk.”

“Truly?”

“ Told you! ”

They ignored Liphen’s awkward Signing as he stayed trapped on his stomach. “His people must be fairly hardy. This wound looks years old.” Galben stepped aside, for the first time allowing Legolas to see. 

His assessment was correct. There were still tidy stitches that needed to be removed but where the scab should be was a thin silver scar that seemed to have faded with age. Legolas knew it had been worse yesterday, more on track with how an Elf healed. He did not know what had caused the acceleration though he was glad for it, if only for Liphen’s sake. 

“I will remove the stitches-”

“ Yes! ” 

“-and then test his range of motion.”

“ But I am fine. ” Despite his lack of vocals Legolas could hear the edge of a whine. 

Galben tapped his back. “Hush. It will not take long.”

Legolas could not see Liphen’s face, though giving Míwen’s expression the boy was likely displaying animated displeasure. Her lips twitched with the same amusement she had at Legolas’s frustrations and Liphen flashed her a gesture that needed no translation. 

Galben tapped him on the back of the head. “None of that. Now stay while I fetch the scissors.”

Liphen shifted, silently grumbling as he sat up. “ S-I-S-O-R-S ?” he spelled out, having missed the sign for them with Galben speaking behind him. 

“Scissors,” Legolas made the correct sign before doing his best gesture to show what they did. Any apprehension Liphen may have had faded when Glaben returned, the tool in his hand. 

Liphen sighed and flopped back on to his stomach, wiggling until he was comfortable. 

“This will feel strange,” Galben warned and, though Legolas was certain Liphen did not understand, he waved his hand dismissively.

Liphen squirmed, though it was obvious impatience instead of discomfort. His legs bent up in a 90º angle, his legs kicking the air like the child he was, as Galben slowly worked. There was no sign of pain when Galben had to give an aggressive tug on the odd stitch, the wound having healed too tightly on the string. 

“Done,” Galben finally declared and had it not been for Míwen’s quick reflexes Liphen would have bounced out of bed. Galben glared. “With the stitches. You know there is still more to come.” Liphen flopped back onto his face as Galben began to prod. “I need you to tell me if it hurts,” he instructed, though Leglas was fairly certain everyone in this room knew Liphen would lie. 

Galben felt around where the wound had been before gently grabbing Liphen’s leg, pulling it back as far as it would go naturally, which revealed an unexpected flexibility. He had Liphen roll to his side and then his back, repeating the gesture. By the time he instructed Liphen to stand the boy was practically vibrating, flexing his hands as he stared longingly at the door. 

“Walk,” Galben instructed. 

With a roll of his eyes, Liphen stomped around the room, staring down the healer as though to demonstrate just how little pain he was in. 

Galben looked skywards, as though the Valar would save him from such stubbornness, before speaking. “Fine. He seems well. If he begins to sit strangely or shift oddly, bring him back, but for now I officially release him from my care.”

Liphen hopped in delight, running to grab his lyre from the table. He grabbed Legolas’s hand and began to tug him out of the room and Legolas, with great longsuffering, allowed himself to be pulled along. 

Míwen laughed. “We should have called him Rabbit.”

Legolas flipped his grip, so it was he who had Liphen’s hand, and began to lead him somewhere new. “We should have called him trouble,” Legolas groused. “Adar has ordered that I bring Liphen to him once he felt better. I believe it is a decision he will come to regret.”

With a shake of her head, Míwen grinned viciously. “I did not expect the Prince of Mirkwood to so desperately hate children.”

That was an overstatement. He did not hate Liphen. He was not truly displeased with the boy. He was merely exhausted by their conflicts, though now that Liphen was on his feet, Legolas supposed those would fade unless Liphen was the type to thrive off of enmity.  

He truly hoped that was not the case. 

Legolas released Liphen, pausing in their journey so he could explain where they were going clearly. “We are going to meet Adar. Be polite.” There was no smirk on Liphen’s face as he nodded, having picked up on Legolas’s seriousness. Any silliness and excess energy was shed as he followed along. Though he was still silent on his own history, Legolas had not forgotten his own suppositions. Politics was likely something Liphen was well versed in and despite being on his way to meet the king, Thranduil would be merciful as long as Liphen did not show overt disrespect. 

Legolas spotted Tithendir as he walked and waved the guard down. “Have you seen Adar?” he asked.

Tithendir grinned. “Woe to him, as last I heard he was in the throne room, listening to Delior’s complaints.” 

Sighing, Legolas asked the question of the hour. “What bothers Delior now?” Legolas had never met an Elf that so delighted in misery as Delior.

“He is complaining about the behaviour of the Dwarves.”

“The Dwarves,” Legolas echoed dryly. “The ones who have not yet arrived? Those Dwarves?”

Tithendir laughed. “The very same. Apparently they have already made a mess of his stable.”

Míwen snorted. “For once Delior may have the right of it. No Dwarf should set foot in these halls. We would do better to cut off their feet that allow them to enter.”

Legolas ignored her, used to her vicious streak. “Then it sounds like the King is in great need of rescue.”

Delight danced in Tithendir’s eyes. “If you do so you may surpass Barad as your Adar’s favorite.”

Covering her mouth did not hide Míwen’s scoff but Legolas did not bother to curb his laugh. He was not favored by his Adar more than closely guarded, with his patrol routes being kept closer to the Palace than Barad’s. Given what had happened to Emil, Nórui, and Lammoron, his Aadr’s affections came less from joy and more from loss. Legolas tolerated it, and would continue to do so for eternity if he must. Barad had loudly declared over many cups of wine that he rather Legolas suffer for it than himself. He rode to Dale too often to be slowed down by a retinue. 

“Let us be off to save your Adar!” Míwen declared with mock seriousness, “if only from the folly of his own choices.” Liphen watching with curiosity. The exchange was beyond his knowledge but Legolas knew he was smart enough to pull some understanding from the context of the situation. 

She pushed Legolas, urging him along as Tithendir waved them away, off to whatever duties called his own attention. Legolas felt his own footsteps grow heavy. He hated dealing with Delior and if there was only one reason to never be King it was solely to avoid dealing with that Elf in a formal context. Oh, he would complain to anything that had ears but it was only upon the King that he laid the expectations that the problems would be immediately resolved, as though Legolas’s Adar did not have more pressing duties than the Elf’s bees being spooked by the noise of the training grounds. 

Míwen hated Delior as well but she thrived on frustrations, which was why she did not give Legolas a moment to compose himself before she pushed him into the Throne Room, announcing him with a wicked grin. 

“Your Majesty, I present to you Prince Legolas, who has news of our guest!”

It was only familiarity that allowed Legolas to see the way tension released from his Adar’s shoulders as a reason to dismiss Delior stepped into the room. The other Elf huffed. “Your Majesty-” he protested before he was even waved away and Adar pinned him with a look.

“I will deal with the Dwarves when they are present to become an issue, Delior. They will offer us enough slights that I will not need to act on imagined ones.”

Delior huffed and bowed, relinquishing the floor with a mulish look.

Legolas bowed, Liphen copying him with surprising speed. “Adar,” Legolas said as he clapped a hand on Liphen’s shoulder. “This is Liphen.”

Adar raised an eyebrow. “That is a very Elven name.”

“It is an approximation,” Legolas confessed and Liphen took it as a cue. “His name in his own tongue is this.” He made the hand gesture as he had been shown. 

Thranduil switched his gaze to Liphen, who took it as a signal. 

He bowed deeply. “ Thank you for your care, Adar, ” he said and the room stilled into the silence that came before a storm as Legolas realized that perhaps telling Liphen that he was meeting Adar and not The King had been unwise on his part. He did well not to shuffle from side to side, but he betrayed his nervousness by rubbing the back of his hand.  

Behind him Míwen wheezed as though she was dying. 

Liphen stood from his bow, eying the room, obviously aware he had made a misstep but unsure of where he had trailed off of the path. 

Worse, though, was that Thranduil looked thoughtful and Legolas could feel an oncoming shift. “Liphen.” The boy nodded gravely at his name. “I have heard you enjoy music. Will you play me a song of your people, one that has not yet graced my halls?”

Liphen bowed again, biting his lip as his hands hovered over the strings of the lyre, no doubt searching for one he thought would be fit for a King. He began to sway before he had strummed the first note. 

It was slow and thoughtful, mature in ways that his usual songs were not as all they seemed to do was burst with joy, and it was played with purpose. The notes bounced along and Legolas felt a slight breeze stir his hair, though it was impossible for the wind to blow this deep in the Palace. As the song trailed off, the notes echoing in the Throne Room, Liphen seemed to glow if only for a moment, blurring around the edges before he settled back into place. 

Adar tapped his fingers before rising and Legolas resigned himself to his Adar’s whims. Liphen kept his face neutral though his body was wary at Adar’s approach. He flinched as Adar pressed a finger under the boy’s chin, raising his head. “I have heard you like music and sunshine.”

“ Yes, ” Liphen signed slowly. “ And the moon and the stars and the wind. ”

Thranduil studied him. “Those are very Elven things to enjoy.”

Liphen’s expression broke into something stubborn, his chin rising without assistance. “They are very precious things to enjoy. They are a gift from.” The next part of the sentence was incomprehensible to Legolas, though apparently important to Liphen. 

Adar seemed to understand well enough. “Liphen,” King Thranduil of the Woodland Realm declared in a clear voice, “you will call me Adar and you will always have a place in my halls.”

X-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x

“You adopted him,” Barad stated flatly. Liphen had been whisked away by servants, Míwen following along in the pretence of being a guard, though Leglas was certain she just wanted to see the boy flustered. He had been edging that way ever since Adar’s declaration. 

Adar lounged on his couch, watching his sons with open amusement. “It was a calculated decision.”

“It was a whim.” Legolas stood back as Barad threw the accusation but it was not enough to prevent his brother from rounding on him. “You were involved! You coached him!”

Legolas held his hands up and slowly brought them down, as though he could quash his brother’s temper. “Peace. It was an error in translation. Though he speaks well he has been here for less than a week. A mistake was bound to be made.”

“And calling the King his father just happened to be that mistake?!” 

“Enough, Barad,” Adar said but there was no heat in his tone. “If anyone is to draw your ire it shall be me, but you will find me unmoved.”

“You do not know him!” Barad hissed. 

Adar raised an eyebrow. “Do you think me blind and deaf to the happenings of my kingdom? I have had him watched and he fits our people well. His songs are fair and he loves the trees as much as they love him.”

Legolas tilted his head. “You set Maendir to watch?” 

With a nod Adar answered. “I have, and everytime Liphen has come to the garden the trees have been happier for it. That alone is enough for me to put my misgivings aside.”

“He is a brat,” Legolas pointed out and Barad nodded in backup, as though he had been the one struggling with the boy’s rebellious mood. 

Adar chuckled. “He was healing and he held no candle to the fits you would throw when you broke your leg. You bit Galben.”

Legolas ducked his head, heat on his cheeks. He had been fifteen and not used to the constraints of an injured body. Having summer pass him by when he could barely hobble had seemed an unjust punishment for jumping out of a tree and he had taken his temper out on anyone who neared him. 

Barad clicked his tongue. “You are making a mistake.”

“It is my mistake to make,” King Thranduil challenged. “Though the boy’s body has mended, the heart holds onto injuries and that is a journey he has not started. My claim will give him a place to find his peace.”

“He will die of old age as any Man is wont to do!” Barad pointed out and Legolas winced, taking a step back. 

Adar stood, his shoulders thrown back, bearing the weight of his authority. “He will not be the first child I have lost to death, Barad.” Barad opened his mouth but snapped it shut with only a look. “It is done and I will not change my decision.”

“I refuse to acknowledge him,” Barad growled, glaring, and Legolas knew that they had come to an impasse, as they so often did. Barad must have had the same thought for he stormed away, slamming the heavy wood door behind him. 

Adar turned his gaze to Legolas. “I suppose you have great protests as well?”

“Only questions,” Legolas said sincerely. “There are other ways to bind him to our people. Why did you choose this one?” 

Adar studied Legolas, weighing him, before he motioned Legolas over to the couch. Both sat and Legolas waited patiently as his Adar looked a million miles away. “He reminds me of Lammoron,” Adar confessed and it took all he could for Legolas to suppress his surprise. Adar did not talk about Lammoron or Emil’s fate. He would speak of Nórui but never discuss how she had come to be the way she was. The orc attack that had damaged this family so badly was treated with silence, kept in the shadows of memory. 

“You were so young when he passed and I have done little to keep his memory alive, but Lammoron was no warrior. Any moment he wasted on the bow was one that kept him away from his songs, or so he felt. He spent days in Melinde’s Hall, going so far as to sleep there, and I had to carry him out by his ear on more than one occasion to make him complete his duties.” He sighed, painful memories close. “He would have loved Liphen.”

“Liphen is not Lammoron,” Legolas cautioned gently. 

“No,” Adar said, his voice tainted by sadness. “I know Lammoron is lost, but in his own way Liphen is as well, even if that reality has not yet set in. He has you as a guide but you are too young to be an anchor and Barad guards his own heart too closely.” Adar met Legolas’s gaze, his eyes clear and present. “There is a truth in Maendir’s words and kindness is easy to offer.”

Legolas nodded. Kindness would be easy now that he did not have to fight with Liphen over his ability to stand. 

“Maendir also let me know that he finds Míwen to be entertaining and is likely to petition for her to be on his squad for another decade.”

Legolas pinched his brow. 

X–x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x

So.

Adar did not mean King. 

It should have been a fleeting moment of humiliation with a stern correction at the very least, a flight through the forest for safety at worst. Yet here Link was, servants fussing at him and holding color swatches against his skin while others stretched measuring tapes down his arms, which was not enough to distract him from the reality of what had just happened. 

He had been adopted. 

Link was too old to be adopted. Perhaps. Maybe? The King looked no older than Legolas even if the man called him Father, so Link was beginning to think these people might be a variation on the Kokiri. There were neither the old nor the young because that was the nature of things. Still, Link was forty-seven, well past the majority for a Hylian. Had he not been locked away he might have had grandchildren by now, were his own get ambitious enough. 

Adopted.

As much as he was reeling, a small part of him was pleased. Though it may have been purely ceremonial it had been nice to hear that he was wanted and welcomed without some great task sitting before him to prove his dedication. All the King, Adar? had asked for was a song which was always a gift Link would freely give. Seeing as how things turned out Link felt safe to say it pleased the King. 

Adar. Link should probably call the man Adar. It was what he had started with and there was little it would do to make the situation worse. He doubted it would still Míwen’s laughter, which came in starts and stops. Link was fairly certain a decade from now she would stand on the nearest table, a drink in hand, and recount the story with relish and embellishment. 

Finally, though Míwen had not silenced herself for the final time, the servants stopped fussing and instead produced a tunic. It was embroidered but the stitches were made with a thick string, the work clever but sturdy. The fabric was soft but felt durable under Link’s fingers, unlike the costumes Zelda had stuffed him into. It felt as though it would endure a day exploring the forest instead of tearing when looked at too hard. 

It was accompanied by leather breeches and though they fit too big, though everything was too large, they were a relief. He had not minded the loose pants he had been provided, nor the robe, it had been decades since he had worn real clothing. Were it not for the embroidery it was something he might pick for himself and he felt no displeasure donning it, though that could be because it was his favorite shade of green. 

He felt more like himself since Zelda’s attack. 

There was only one thing left. 

“ Scissors? ” He asked before pulling at his hair. 

The next words were a mystery before the woman he was talking to slid her fingers up and down her hair, imitating cutting. Link held his fingers at the back of his skull and she frowned, bringing hers lower until they graced her shoulder. Link raised an eyebrow and she pulled out her own braid. “This is important.”

Link eyes her dubiously before nodding. Just long enough to braid. It was a small concession in the wake of everything they had gifted him with. Still, he pulled at the front, indicating that he wanted it shorter there. She nodded, a compromise reached. 

He sat as directed, staying still as a blanket seemingly made of leaves was thrown over his shoulders to protect his tunic. He nearly shuddered as a brush was pulled through his hair and he hummed, trying to remember the last person to cut his hair. Perhaps Saria? Malon had offered but Link could not remember if he had trusted her with scissors. No, it had been Rini, the poor woman who raised Cuccos in Kakariko who had last given it a cut as payment for helping with her birds again. 

Link had usually just trimmed it himself. 

There was a strange sort of trust to allow someone with something so sharp near the back of his neck. Saria had been easy because she was a friend and Rini was absolutely harmless. Link had no doubt the servant behind him was far more proficient and that he was trusting her not to harm him. 

He almost snorted. It was unlikely that she would harm the newest son of her King. 

What a strange day. 

He hummed as he sat, one of the songs he had heard in the music hall, as he listened to the distinct sound of a blade through hair. He could feel his scalp grow lighter with every snip, as though it was the final weight of the chains Zelda had bound him in. It was like standing in the sun in its own way, taking back a decision she had denied him to yell “Look, I am free.” 

Sonia would make a wonderful queen if only because she had one thing Zelda did not. 

Mercy. 

He felt the last of the hair fall away and lifted a hand to touch it but his fingers were knocked aside by a brush. It pulled gently, pulling free quickly, and Link shuddered as he inhaled.

“Are you well?” Míwen asked, no humor in her voice and Link brought his fingers up to his cheeks, unsurprised for them to come back wet.

He offered Míwen a shaky smile that did little to appease her but the woman holding the brush spoke. “Hair is important. Even Dwarves know that.” She pulled the brush through again. “We have him all fixed up though, do we not?” She ran her fingers through his hair. “Would you like to see?”

Link gave a shaky nod. He was cleaned off and pulled to his feet before being guided to a large mirror. 

It was the first time he had seen himself in decades. Oh, Zelda had provided him with a mirror, as though he had needed one the way she did. He had used it for a while, playing games with himself and performing dances that were meant for two, until one day he had destroyed it. Zelda had thought it had merely been in a fit of temper but the truth was he had shattered it the day he woke up and saw a stranger staring back. 

But he saw himself. Tunic a little nicer, hair slightly longer, but the essence of who he truly was shone through and he laughed brightly. Then the sound strangled into hysterics and as he fell to his knees strong arms caught him, guiding him to the floor. 

“You are well,” Míwen promised. 

Link shook his head. He was not. His hip had healed but he was beginning to recognize that Zelda had done more damage than just that. 

Míwen’s grip tightened. “You are safe.”

He could only pray to the Three that was true. 

Chapter Text

Liphen was returned to Legolas, eyes red but looking otherwise pleased, which was more than Legolas could say. The haircut, while fitting, emphasized Liphen’s eyes and gave the illusion that they were larger than in actuality. It made him look younger and more vulnerable which was not a way Liphen should appear before a Dwarf’s eyes. Legolas held his tongue and his fears when Míwen had quietly whispered the boy’s evident relief at the new haircut, expressing a desire to war against whoever had allowed it to grow long enough to cause him distress.

Liphen would likely never see a Dwarf as long as he stayed in the forest. Legolas had little reason to fret. 

Liphen’s glow, however, faded over the week. His countenance was serious, with the glee he had shown at the news of his recovery repressed. Where Legolas had expected energy Liphen remained reserved and his eyes filled with the shadows of polite suspicion and when he was not speaking he was rubbing the back of his hand aggressively enough that Legolas was tempted to procure gloves in an effort to break the habit. He treated every Elf he came across with almost exaggerated respect though Legolas saw no mocking edge in it. It was not until he fumbled his words to Duirro that Legolas understood the source of the problem. 

With a basket of pastries he led Liphen back to the garden, Míwen aware enough that the conversation was not for ears. He passed a pastry and Liphen took a small nibble, careful of crumbs, 

“You need not be so formal,” Legolas said, taking his own treat. Liphen froze and Legolas knew he had found the heart of the matter. “There are times to stand on ceremony but we are not so beholden unto it.” 

Placing his pastry in his lap, Liphen signed hesitantly. “ Adar has taken me into his house. It is important that I give him no reason to regret that. ”

“He shall not,” Legolas assured and he smiled at Liphen’s obvious skepticism. “The rules that bind you to Adar are the same as those that bind you to the Realm and they are just a call for common decency. Do not slay your kin or deal with them in bad faith. Protect the Realm and obey your superiors when it comes to your duty.”

“What is my duty? Who are my superiors? ”  Liphen shifted, scrambling for a moment to prevent his food from sliding off his lap, before he sat with one foot pulled flush against his thigh. “ I have been picked by the King but given no direction. I do not know what you want from me. ” His fingers stumbled over the words in growing frustration and Legolas supposed that was the true insecurity that drove Liphen’s stiff behaviour. 

“You must only obey Adar, though I would hope you heed my advice.” Legolas offered a small smile. “Your duty is to heal,” Legolas said as softly as he could. “Though you have not said and we shall not push, it is easy for even the dullest of eyes to see that your heart is wounded and that is something we as a people take seriously. An Elf with damaged fëa may fade and though your soul seems to be closer to that of a Man, Adar has declared you one of our people.” Liphen lifted his hands to speak but Legolas caught them, tangling their fingers so he might further explain. This was important. “We will not demand your story, though you will find any ear here willing to listen. We will not push you before you are ready and we shall not drive you out for any misstep. As long as you do not treat us with maliciousness in your heart you will have a place.”

Liphen gave Legolas’s hands a squeeze before pulling them free. He grabbed his pastry again, frowning at it in deep thought before taking a fair sized bite, crumbs drifting onto his tunic. He hummed in contemplation as they ate in silence. Once he finished, Liphen took to his feet. 

“Do you know how to- ?” he made a complicated motion with his hands and Legolas shook his head, not following. 

Liphen’s face took on an impish look that Legolas was surprised to find that he missed. The boy took two steps backwards before he exploded into motion, his feet sailing over his head before landing on the ground. He held out his arms before folding one in to give a mock bow and then made the sign again. 

Legolas grinned. “Back flip,” he translated. “And yes, I can do one.”

“Prove it. ”

X-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x

Having been told that no duty was expected of him until he felt able to bear the weight of it came with a relief Link had never been granted by another. Certainly, he had time to himself but it had always been carved out by his own hands and experienced in solitude. As much as he missed Navi, and he still ached with that loss decades later, even their adventures had been fraught with the need to go faster and do more.

Everywhere else he went there had always been a task waiting, one perfectly suited for the Hero. They were often fraught and always there, always laying expectations for Link’s visits. 

To be told that all he needed to do was indulge felt almost wasteful, especially given that he had spent the last few decades doing little but sleeping and thinking, but as the sun shone down and his heart rejoiced he could dredge up no guilt. He had been given permission, no, he was here with the expectation that he would act as any other. 

Still, old habits died hard, and when Legolas had gifted Link with a pair of supple gloves, Orner had made an offhand comment about needing a new clay pot. Link had heard that Luin had one she was willing to part with but she was in desperate need of dried duck, it triggered the task of backtracking until Link found Idhreniel, who was willing to trade a wooden bracelet for anyone who would help her trim horse hooves. It was an easy task and nostalgic once he managed to convince Idhreniel that he was both capable and willing. It allowed Link to sink into memories of Epona. 

She had likely long since passed but Link held onto the hope that she had lived a happy life. She often spent her time at Lon Lon Ranch when they were not together and Malon would never have stood for a suffering horse. Even if she had decided to spend her remaining time in the wild, Epona was smarter, smarter than many people Link had met. 

She would have known how to keep herself safe.

From the bracelet came the clock, and the clock led to the embroidered pouch, though the man had also trimmed the fingers from Link’s gloves so that he might use them more freely. He earned a pen from that, which resulted in a pillowed stuffed with down. The pillow turned into a quiver of arrows and for that he received a poetry book. Though he could not read a word of it, the pictures were beautiful. It was the book that finally netted him the duck meat and Orner had given him a wooden flute for his trouble. 

Prize in hand he could not bring himself to feel guilty about abandoning Legolas and Míwen. They were obviously unused to such tasks and had begun to question Link as he backtraced to see who needed what, convinced that he was pestering people instead of at work. Though he left them he obeyed the spirit of their guardianship, not straying far from the Palace, at least not into the forest that he had been warned about a dozen times. 

Míwen had dogged his heels with impressive determination, snarling threats under her breath, and Link had inhaled, reaching inside with the promise that if nothing happened he would allow her to catch him. It had been so long but the memory was there, lodged in his heart. He could hear the shrieking laughter of the Great Fairies as they acted as a conduit, blessing him with the power of the Goddesses. With a soft prayer to Farore, Link stepped into the breeze.

The other spells he could describe. Din’s Fire was heat travelling down his bones and Nayru’s Love was being wrapped in the best hug he could ever imagine, but Farore’s Wind was a wild spell, allowing him to flow and twist as he became one with the wind. It had been the hardest to master so he was not just ejected anywhere, but the control he had learned had been worth every bruise. He had raced along, at one with the wind, until he landed on a path behind Míwen, ready to travel forward while she chased where he had been. 

Legolas, however, while not nearly as proactive as Míwen, was far more successful in his hunt for Link. He sat in Melinde’s Hall, amongst his own friends, though as Link slid into the room he gave him an unimpressed frown.

Link sat himself at Legolas’s table, his mood not dulled by the other’s disapproval. “Liphen,” Legolas said, using his hand to gesture to the strangers. “This is Maendir, Gwethril, and Coth.” Link picked up the barest hint of displeasure with the last name, though Legolas bore none on his face. “I am pleased to see that you have decided to grace us with your presence.” 

Ignoring how snide Legolas sounded, Link held forth his flute, proudly showing it off. It was a crude thing, one that Ornor admitted to carving when he had little practice, but the sound it made was beautiful and that was all that truly mattered. 

Gwethril tilted a head, searching for permission, and Link passed it fearlessly into her hands. He had yet to find someone bearing malice for him and it made it easier to share what little he had. She would not break it out of carelessness or animosity. 

“This is Ornor’s work,” she observed, rolling the flute in her hand, “from the days when he was but a child.” Link nodded, making note. They did have children then, though there were no children here. Legolas had emphasized that the forest was dangerous, so perhaps they grew up in a safer land and made their way here as adults?

“If that is the extent of his ability it is no wonder that he has given up the craft,” Coth said and Link raised both his eyebrows at the man. It may not look like much but it was a good instrument, one Link was proud to play and own. 

Maendir shot Coth a small glare in rapprochement. “Ornor gave up the craft because it was interfering with his other duties and he valued his service to the King over his ability to make instruments. If you have coin and catch him in a good mood one may be able to commission him to make something new, though that is not a situation you will ever find yourself in.”

Link’s jaw did not drop but it was a near thing. He was aware that Legolas had been running interference on his interactions but never had it been so obvious. Until now Link had only met men who got along easy with each other, but given Coth’s smug attitude  the scathing insult Maendir had thrown his way, hard feelings were obviously apart of this people just as they were in any other. 

It made Link feel a little easier knowing that were he to interact with anyone while in a mood he would not inflict mortal insult to a people unused to harsh words. Perhaps his experience had been so curated as they had the same thoughts about him? Legolas had said his people could die if their soul was too wounded and though it would obviously take more than a harsh word to kill a man, maybe some feared that such a thing would be enough to push Link over the edge.

However, Link’s newfound knowledge led him to one delightful supposition and a new challenge. These people had to have swears and Link was going to learn them all. 

Coth sneered in response. “I hardly find myself in need.”

“Do you play? ” Link asked, unsure if he was fueling a fire or if he would be given an honest answer.

Coth sputtered. “I am a man, of course I play!”

Link was beginning to suspect that man did not mean man in the way that he understood it but unfortunately, despite how offended Coth would probably be, Link let his ignorance lay low. Even with how delighted it would make the rest of the table. Legolas’s eyes sparkled the way they did when he was amused and Gwethril had her hands tucked in front of her mouth. Coth’s cheeks were flushed with temper, his hands tucked into white knuckled fists. Maendir was the only one who looked truly serene, as though he had not been the one to escalate the situation. 

Link may have waited on purpose for Legolas to take a sip of his wine. “ Well? ”

The Prince choked and Maendir patted him on the back even as his own facade slipped. Gwethril did a better job of hiding her laughter than Míwen ever had but Link was fairly certain that it was because she was biting the inside of her cheek. 

Coth sneered openly. “Better than you, Little Prince.” 

Bold words. 

“You play any song of your choice and I will play it after. Let the audience decide the victor. ”

Everyone’s eyebrows rose at that and, apparently more people had been watching than Link expected because a cheer rose from a nearby table. Astordil stood, face wine flushed despite it only being midday. “A challenge has been issued!” she announced. “A fine one at that! Our new Little Prince has declared that any song Coth can play he can play better!”

Coth frowned and Link could see his eyes gleam as he schemed. “A bet,” he decided. “Your instrument for mine.”

Link perked up, nodding before he even knew what Coth had, before anyone could interject about arrogance being a fault. Every instrument sounded different and he would not care if the man had a dozen ocarinas. Link would win them all and be glad for it. 

Music was the one thing he might be better at than the blade. 

Maendir stood, trying to calm the situation. “That is unfair. His comes from Ornor. It is far more valuable than your lute which was crafted by the clumsy hands of a-” Another word Link did not know.  

Coth nodded and Link felt a thrill as the stakes heightened. “My-” Whatever he had bet caused the room to go silent and Link licked his lips in anticipation. “I will fetch it.” He turned to Link. “I will give you until I return to flee, Little Prince.”

Legolas sighed. “That was brash and if you have any desire to keep your flute you should leave.”

“I will not lose, ” Link assured him. 

Gwethril flicked her chin in Legolas’s direction in agreement. “I have seen you here often and heard you play, but Coth will not play something simple nor something you have heard before.” She shook her head. “You cannot win.”

“I will not lose. ”

They both looked to Maendir who pulled out a gold coin. “I bet victory will fall in Liphen’s favor.”

Coins began to fall from every direction and though most declared it would be Link’s loss, Legolas, despite his misgivings, bet in his favor. Gwethril bet against him with regret and Astordil not only favored Link to win but promised him a lute if he embarrassed Coth bad enough to have him avoid the hall for a week. 

Link was positively beaming by the time Coth returned. The man scowled when he saw Link was still there, his expression growing even darker at the pile of coins.

Still, he strode to the stage with the grace of his people and drew his instrument. It was not one Link had ever seen. It was as though a guitar had shrank and instead of being held across the chest it was tucked under the chin. The hand holding the instrument wrapped around the strings at the top of the instrument but the other, instead of strumming, held what looked to be a flat bow. It was useless for firing arrows and Link was thrilled to see how it fit. 

Coth pulled it across the string. 

It was as though the instrument could sing, its voice winding and mournful. The song was a lament, speaking of profound loss that would not heal with the passing of time. Link closed his eyes, swaying, as every note passed through his chest. It built in his veins and he longed to play it on an ocarina, to listen to the sound pass through the rough hewn clay. Coth was good and he pulled the song to the roof of the ceiling before going so soft Link needed to lean in to listen. 

People clapped as the notes faded, echoing hauntingly through the hall.

Coth bowed and his eyes met Link’s. Beat that .

Link’s pleasure. 

He grabbed his flute and made his own way upstage, well aware of every eye on him. Everyone was aware that was his first time hearing the song and while so few thought he would succeed, Link knew they all expected to be entertained. Nearly all here had heard him before. They knew he was good. 

They did not know he was phenomenal. 

As he placed the flute to his lips his mind whispered to the Goddess, asking her to listen. He was certain Farore would enjoy such a tune. 

He blew and everything faded away. Coth had played well but it was a song he had been taught. One that was important to him, that had been passed down through his people until it had made its way to Coth and he had learned it to keep the story alive. Link too knew the song. He had heard the notes which means he would know them forever, but where Coth would lose was that Link had lived that story. He played a song of being banished for a death he could not have prevented, thrust into a land of endless sky and danger. He twisted notes around waking up in a body that was not his own in a world that had been paved over with evil. He wove a story of a fruitless search for Navi, his heart calling for someone who never answered back. 

There was no clapping as he finished. 

Around him many people wept, some holding each other closely white others stared into the bottom of their cups as though it had answers to the questions they had never thought to ask. As he stepped down, a few tried, hands coming together before staggering back into silence. Link took a place beside Legolas and Coth bowed his head, passing Link the instrument before he fled the room. It was hard to miss the fury that lined his body, but Link had also seen the tears that had fallen from his eyes. 

With greedy hands Link grabbed the instrument, tucking it under his chin the way Coth had. 

It fit as though it had been designed for him. 

X-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x

“He sent Coth running and I missed it? ” Míwen complained bitterly. “For nothing! I still have no idea how he ended up with Ornor’s flute, only that it was willingly handed over and half the kingdom now says that he is ‘a good boy’.” She scowled. “If I had my way I would let  the Dwarves skin him for the trouble he has caused my, embarrassing Coth or not. I might have skinned Coth for good measure.”

She uncaringly leaned against the tapestry that covered the stone as she guarded the door to Liphen’s quarters. The boy had the sleeping habits of a man which gave her plenty of time to grouse to Legolas. 

“I do not know how,” Legolas explained. “Coth bet a violin.” Míwen raised her eyebrows in genuine shock. Coth may be many things but even Rivendell knew of his skill with his violin. He had two, or, well, had had two, one that had come from Lothlorien. The one he had lost had been made in Rivendell as a gift, for Elrond had declared that such talent should not go to waste, or so the tale went. 

It was before Legolas’s time. 

“You said they bet what they played!” Legolas nodded. “A clumsily made flute against Coth on a violin and he won? ” 

Legolas took in a moment of silence, ignoring the pressure of Míwen’s unspoken demand as he tried to find the words to explain what had happened. “If I ever go to the Halls of Mandos, I would have Link play that song, even if on the poorest of flutes, to commemorate my passing, so everyone might feel the sorrow my fëa would hold at leaving them behind.”

It was Míwen’s turn to be silent. “I am truly sorry to have missed it,” she admitted with more gravity than Legolas usually heard from her. 

“Well,” Legolas ran a hand through his hair, giving a braid a tug, “perhaps you will have another opportunity. Adar had declared that there will be a feast to honor the adoption and he will likely ask for a repeat performance as he too missed it.”

Míwen perked up. “We could do with another feast, though hopefully you do not faint this time.”

“I did not faint!”

“When will it be held?”

Legolas smirked and Míwen cocked her head. “The day the Dwarves arrive.” 

Her expression crumpled into dark confusion, almost spitting the words. “He would share a feast with the Dwarves?” Legolas’s smirk grew bigger and she gasped as Thranduil’s plan unfolded before her eyes. “He would have a feast and exclude the Dwarves?”

With a laugh, Legolas nodded. “He has invited the Men of Dale to the feast and will be too busy to see to settling the Dwarves personally,” offending absolutely everyone. The Men from Dale were pushing for Thranduil to bridge the gap with the Dwarves and their deliberate exclusion would frustrate the Men to no end. The Dwarves would be angered by their lack of invitation and for the feast not being scheduled in a time that would not interfere with their own. 

It was insulting enough all around to make even Delior feel settled about the situation. 

“Will Barad come?” she asked hesitantly and Legolas shook his head with a sigh. 

“He has still not spoken to Adar since that night, so he likely will spend it with Nórui.” Legolas touched his hair again. “Much of his time had been spent there of late and it is good for her. A feast would be overwhelming but he might take her to Emil’s Garden if she is well enough.” Legolas had little doubt he was correct. A part of him knew that he should visit her, perhaps one of the times Link slept, but it seemed as though the path to her rooms grew more treacherous with every passing day. He did not know if either Adar or Barad had told her of Liphen and he did not want to be the one to bear the news. 

“I feel that-”

“Hush!” Míwen cut in harshly. “Do you hear that?”

He tilted his head, frowning and leaned closer to the door. A familiar song was played on a familiar violin by a stranger’s hand, and though Liphen had confessed his unfamiliarity with the instrument, Legolas could hear none of that now as the song rose.  Legolas tilted his head to listen as it grew loud enough that he did not have to hold his breath to catch the notes. 

It was just as sad as it had been when he played in Melinde’s Hall, though a violin brought life to it in a way that a flute simply could not. 

This time Legolas was prepared, though Míwen was not. He could see the way her eyes were beginning to shimmer at the way the music ached, as though the song itself had taken an injury that would not heal. She bowed her head in respect to a musician that could not see her and when the song died, for it did not end. No, it passed and left those behind bereft. She stood in an uncustomary silence, keeping her thoughts to herself.

Legolas did not blame her. There were many Elves who would sit in unexpected silences tonight.

Chapter Text

Link was not in Hyrule. 

He stood under the stars, Legolas and Míwen likely panicking somewhere, as he studied the night sky and let that sink in. Termina had been a mix of differences and similarities, a shadowy mirror of the lands Link had wandered, but, if one ignored the rictus countenance of a murderous moon, the sky had remained unchanged. The things it reflected, even when warped, had been familiar. He knew Gorons and Zora and the Gerudo. He had fought Golden Skulltulas and keese.

He had fought side-by-side with a fairy.

Even in his lowest moments there had been an echo of familiarity, something that told him while he was far, he was also closer than he might suspect. 

There was none of that here. 

The stars that he was used to hanging boldly high in the sky skated over the edge of the horizon, illuminating a garden that had as many unfamiliar plants as it did recognizable. The men he was with were strange, though that was not necessarily a flaw, proclaiming their love for the forest while living in a keep carved in the earth. Adults with no old nor young, though given how they treated Link they surely had their own tucked away somewhere and he was supposed he had not been forced to join them considering how many considerations he gave him because of his apparent age. 

Youth was clearly treasured. 

They were not culling their people at least. Faces that appeared no older than Legolas held too much talent to reflect their appearance. A few perhaps were prodigies, but it was far too common here for the skills of these peoples to come from anything but dedication. 

If the Kokiri could grow, perhaps this is who they would be.

Idley Link wished he could take Legolas to his forest and show him the tree he grew up in, but Link feared what would happen if he tried such a thing. He was here by Farore’s Grace and Hyrule held nothing but pain and trepidation. It would be an insult to the Goddess for him to act rashly for a touch of nostalgia for a forest that held no love for a fairyless boy. He wondered if they knew more of him, of the violence done by his hand, of the weight he had carried, if their feelings would change. 

Would they suddenly see him how Hyrule had seen him? As a Hero before he was a man with a neverending duty to them? Or would they assume his burdens had always been too heavy for him to bear and coddle him even worse than they already did, holding his hand so that he might not wander off and cut his hands on sharp things?

He had yet to grow resentful with the care they treated him, though he knew it would begin to grate soon. Míwen’s company, despite her sharp humor, was beginning to wear on him, her complaints and threats against others more off putting than the amused tolerance other people afforded her.  Legolas was at least occasionally distracted by other such matters that called to a Prince now that Link was mobile, but Míwen was there constantly, trailing behind him as close as his shadow, though with a commentary that grew more cutting as the ‘dwarves’ grew ever near. 

Link’s imprisonment had been isolating in a way that he could not describe, that he would not attempt to even if pushed, but before that he had often been alone though not lonely. He had Epona, with her spirit and attitude, always willing to correct him if she thought he needed it. Or if she could get another apple. 

He had the people he met along the way, some just faces and short stories, others with names and sweeping backstories in elaborate tales that Link would have dismissed as nothing but fanciful musings had they not come from his own mouth. But they had been there and he had always had the ability to ride away, to flee to the field and breathe in the surrounding silence. 

Saria had only ever been a song away. He did not know if she still was. He had played her song here but never reached out, not knowing what to say and unable to cope with the idea that she had agreed to Zelda’s scheme. Saria had been his first friend, his only among the Kokiri, and he could not bear it if she had betrayed him so deeply, but Zelda had said the Sages had agreed with her plan and Link knew Saria remained awakened despite resetting time. 

No. In this case it was better to hold to his ignorance. 

He blew a few winding notes into his ocarina, its presence disguised by his growing collection of instruments. His contest with Coth seemed to have broken a dam and challenges came flooding in, though Legolas had made it clear that he was not beholden to every request and that it was expected for him to be discerning in his tastes. Link did not know enough about the people who lived in the kingdom nor did he care enough about politics to weed out who he would offend either by beating them or ignoring them, and had instead focused on how what they bet would help him. 

Winning ten strips of leather had resulted in three days' work and a dagger he had promised to keep secret while he had also directly taken something called a viol off of Faelher, who had been wise enough to try and win it back by a game, not a song. It had been delightful and Link had won a hair tie he wore even now.

It had also opened up a new place for entertainment, though people had quickly learned not to bet things they did not wish to lose. Someone had grumbled about how Link would not be so high and mighty once they got him behind a bow but so far Legolas refused to show him where the range was. It was a work in progress and incentive for Link to not flee the feast that was to be held in his honor. 

Truly, he hated feasts, having no good experiences with them. The Zora served their food so raw that Link’s fish had escaped his plate and swam for freedom. The Gorons had piled rocks in front of him, ignorant as he pointed out that his teeth simply could not chew the way theirs did. The Gerudos feasted naked under the desert sun and the only time Link had come they had endured going he had stared at his plate the entire time and had burned every inch of his body.    

The feasts at Hyrule Castle were no better, though for entirely different reasons. There was more cutlery than food and the portions were small and overspiced, more in an effort to demonstrate they had wealth enough to be careless with the desert grown saffron than to make anything palatable. It explained while each dish was only a bite.

Link had declined as often as possible, though Zelda had issued a disgusting number of invitations. Her explanation to him was that the Hero deserved to be celebrated, which of course meant on her terms and not his. He would have been pleased with breaking a fresh load of bread in the kitchen. Her justification to the advisors was that ‘he was her friend’, a statement that proved to be worth the air used to speak it. 

No, Zelda cared about herself and her kingdom and as long as Link had fit tidily into that vision he had been treated with due consideration. The moment she had found a better use for him she took advantage, his will be damned. 

The lazy tune sputtered as Link vanished to ocarina, it going straight into his magic pouch with just a thought. He instinctively looked to see if he was alone. Noting that no one had yet to join him, Link took a moment to rub at the Triforce hidden on the back of his hand. There had been a few times it had revealed itself to Link since Zelda had stuffed it under his skin, usually content to remain invisible as though reacting to his disgust. 

It was the most powerful magical item in the kingdom and there were those who would seek to, Gannondorf had tried, cut his arm off in order to access it, and Link wanted no part. When Zelda had sealed his magic with that Thrice damned collar, she had told him she was blocking his access to the Triforce, but even now with it gone he felt nothing but frustration. Running his hand over the mark, even when it was unseen, was strange because what looked like skin felt like smooth metal under fingers.

He was unbearably grateful for the gloves Legolas had gifted that would serve to hide the mark for whenever it decided to reveal itself. Though he was not positive, he had the suspicion that it would have been on his hand for all to see while he played against Coth and he wanted to answer no questions about it. He did not need to tempt others with the possibility of power and while Zelda had betrayed him, what was done was done. She had forced on him one last eternal duty instead of letting him rest and as much as he hated her for it he would still serve. 

He did not truly believe her theory, that as long as he guarded the Triforce Gannondorf would not rise again, and she had failed to consider that there would be others who searched for it. Even if she had succeeded in keeping him locked away, word would have eventually escaped and the castle would have fallen to a determined foe. She of all people should have known that Hyrule Castle was hardly invincible. 

Someone slipped onto the bench beside him and Link instinctively stiffened before allowing his body to relax. “Liphen,” Maendir greeted quietly.

Link just nodded in acknowledgement.

The trees rustled and seemed to lean in as Maendir cocked his head, taking in words that Link did not understand. He could play for the trees and usually found them happy with any song presented before them, but the rumor was that Maendir understood their words. Watching his face Link had little doubt it was true. “A storm is coming,” he said cryptically, for Link knew in his bones that there were no clouds that would gather this night. “It would be best for you to stay near your guard.” There was no chastisement, only warning, so Link sighed and stood, using a toe to kick the ground as Maendir did the same. 

“It will not be forever,” Maendir promised, though Link was not entirely sure what the ‘it’ he referred to was; the oncoming storm or the guard. “And it is always a pleasure to see Míwen.” He sounded sincere, which was baffling given the vitriol she had for the man. Clapping Link on the back Maendir continued to list what he thought were positives. “And tomorrow we feast.”

Hurray.

X-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x

Apparently Astordil had a duty beyond making merry in Melinde’s Hall for she was the one to drape Link in fabric. He had braced himself to be practically swaddled in encumbering cloth but Astordil only dressed him in a tunic with an accompanying robe, though there was nothing simple about the outfit. There were subtle folds designed to emphasise the shoulder. The entire outfit was hand embroidered, the bright blue that matched his eyes stitched with silver and imperial blue. There was the odd pop of orange, like little suns sitting hanging in the sky.  

The outer robe hung to his knees and was the color of midnight. It was tied to the tunic with its use of silver, though it was used far more sparingly, like shimmering stars, and it practically flowed when he walked. 

It was a little shocking to be wearing it and humbling because Link knew that as much as this had been designed to make him look good it had also been designed to please him. It was beautiful yet the textile was thick enough to hold up to hard wear so if Link fled to a tree he would not destroy the beautiful piece. It was made by hands who loved to make and Link suspected it had little to do with his station and more to do with the opportunity to dress someone new. They had even gone so far as to recreate the fingerless gloves he had taken to wearing in a more elegant material. It was a thinner leather, dyed blue to match the outer robe. 

Link loved them. 

There was jewellery, as he suspected, intricate and delicate. A silver bangle clipped over his wrist, built to fit over the glove. A sapphire hung in a silver pendant, metal twisting the cradle as it hung from a thin rope chain. The final piece was a circlet set with sapphires. The stones were small and not there as a display of wealth but instead as a choice to highlight the design of the winding branches and little leaves that made up the thin band. It was alluring. 

The entire ensemble made Link feel beautiful. Normally he felt neutral about his appearance at best, out of place at worst, but Link had little doubt he would walk into the feast and blend in as though he had been born to these people. 

He blinked hard and Astordi kissed his cheek. “Do not weep, Little Prince, else the food will grow cold as the Kingdom comforts you.”

“ It is too much. ”

She laughed. “Hardly. We are not a poor Kingdom and we have much to give. Now come. the King will want to see you.”

X-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x

Liphen was beautiful. 

That did not surprise Thranduil. He had been easy to adopt for it was easy to forget he was not Elven, despite the physical differences. The way he made merry was the same as Thranduil’s people and though he seemed determined to collect instruments the way Elrond collected books, by all accounts he did so because his love of playing them often rivaled that of their previous owners. There was the occasionally hard feeling, though Legolas assured Thranduil that they were usually laid to rest by Link’s joy in handling them. It also did not hurt that he was willing to bet them back with lesser stakes, though those items had also all become part of his growing collection. 

He was obviously loved by the Valar for his propensity for winning was nearly supernatural and had he been a Man he would have been accused a cheat, but if there was one thing Link was not it was perfidiousness. Oh, he had guile and had taken to slipping Míwen as often as he could but it was always by slipping away when her attention was split but that was the extent of his mischief. What he truly got up to when alone was solving small problems that were beneath Thranduil’s attention and it pleased him to no end. 

Adopting Liphen had been a mix of instinct and impulsiveness and the only regret he carried was the cloudy disposition of Barad, though there was little Thranduil could do about that. Thranduil would enjoy his time with Liphen, which would soon be extended once his hands were free of the unbearable trade meetings, and Barad could choose to do the same or he could choose to act like a spoiled Elfing. Liphen’s stay would likely pass in the blink of an eye and it would be Barad who missed out. 

Which would be a shame for him, Thranduil thought as he stood, offering Liphen a small smile. The boy flushed under the attention, rubbing at his hand, before going to bow and Thranduil caught his shoulder and shook his head. “You bow to no one while in this forest.” He lifted his hand to rub a thumb against the boy’s cheek, noting how he leaned into the touch. Galben had warned him that he was touched starved and that resolving that was an effort Legolas was making but it seemed as though more work was needed. 

Affection was an easy gift. 

He reached his hands into the boy’s hair, splitting a lock of hair into multiple strands. Liphen stood unmoving, eyes wide with confusion, as Thranduil deftly twisted the hair. “This is a family braid,” Thranduil muttered, memories of doing this for another child teasing his memory. “As long as you wear it all will know that you are mine and that I carry you close to my heart.” Liphen’s eyes shined and Thranduil gave the braid an affectionate tug.

“Come,” Thranduil said lightly, taking Liphen’s hand as though he were under fifteen. “My people have outdone themselves and I do believe they would stage a coup if I made them wait unduly for the feast to begin.

Liphen laughed and allowed himself to be led to the same clearing he had first appeared, though he likely did not know that. It was a wild space, outside of Calathiel’s Garden, allowing the people to celebrate the forest as much as themselves and his people were all the merrier for it. Already sounds of good cheer were echoing through the trees and most held finely crafted finger foods of breads, fruits, and cheeses. Thranduil emerged from the path and the band burst into music at his arrival. His people bowed respectfully as he pulled Liphen to a table that had been set up for the royal family, going back to what they were doing the moment Thranduil sat. The Men from Dale held the bow for a bit longer, obviously trying to take their cues from the Elves. They stood out, raggedly from their journey. Thranduil knew they had expected a feast, but one to close out the negotiations, not open. 

Liphen stared at the men curiously as though he had never seen one before when Amdirchand appeared bearing a tray with an assortment of hor’s d'oeuvres and when Liphen’s eyes went wide, Thranduil began to serve the boy. “Figs and goat cheese,” he said, signing once the food was on the boy’s dish. “A current jam on sourdough.” He grabbed a cracker covered in meat, “A pheasant pâté with blueberries. It is a particular favorite of mine.”

Liphen eyed his plate dubiously though Thranduil could see that the boy was struggling to maintain a polite facade. The kitchens had said nothing about him being a picky eater so something else must have spawned his hesitation. It was only when Legolas, who had managed to materialize at his seat in a display of stealth that he had too often used to cause trouble, popped a fig into his mouth that Liphen took the risk. The boy braced himself and took a bite of the pâté.

He immediately brightened as though he had somehow expected the Elves to fail in their fare and it once again made Thranduil question where he had come from. Thranduil could admit that his musicalility rivaled that of even the most talented Elf, though that did not mean he did it as anything more than a hobby. If musicians were as coveted as Liphen seemed to be it would be unlikely that he would have taken up the craft and if they were not then there would have been nothing for Liphen to flee from. He did not have enough skill at deception to be a spy, so once again the theories circled around a noble with a dedicated hobby. 

Apparently belonging to a people who could not cook if the way he munched along cheerfully was any indication.  

Once Liphen had tried all the morsels Thranduil and Legolas had plied him with, the King stood. His people glided to their chosen tables, growing silent in his wake. 

“My people,” Thranduil said, his voice rich and clear, in Westron for the benefit of the men of Dale, “it is my pleasure to welcome the Men of Dale to the Kingdom of Mirkwood,” it was not. They were here because their lord was a busybody and Lord Ronord had somehow come to the conclusion that if the Elves and the Dwarves had better relations he may somehow profit. Thranduil had little reason to change the status quo and as an Elf he had nothing but time. He did not enjoy that he was about to waste so much on a fruitless endeavour but time was a more precious resource for everyone else. He had centuries at his disposal. “Please be graceful with our guests with respect as we treat with Dale again to ensure peace and prosperity between our Kingdoms.” There was polite clapping, no one overly enthused. They knew the Men of Dale were why the Dwarves were here, as though they had stepped in horse manure and tracked it into Thranduil’s Halls. 

Thankfully, that was not the only news of the night, merely a poke at the Dwarves who would arrive to a meal of vegetables in private corridors.

Switching to Sindarian, for this was for Thranduils’s people. If the Men understood and brought word to their Lord, Thranduil would not be unduly upset, but he would not make concessions to include those who did not show even the most basic respect by learning his tongue. “It has been a long time since the Elves of Mirkwood have been graced with a child and never before has one been given to us by the forest itself. Yet here we are, faced with fortuitous circumstances as once again Mirkwood provides.” He paused allowing for Elves to raise their glasses in joy. A cheer went as high as every cup.

Even Coth, who was still bitter about the loss of his violin, raised his cup with sincerity and Thranduil was pleased. Though he did not like the boy he acknowledged that he was special and that was all Thranduil required of him. Only Barad could get away with such disagreement over the child and Thranduil was not so blind as to deny that it was because he afforded his son more freedom than one might expect.  

But Thranduil had other family to attend to tonight. “You likely know him by the songs he fills our halls with, but now let me give you his name. It is my duty and my pleasure to welcome Liphen Thrandulion into my family.” There was a thunder of voices and claps and Thranduil raised his own glass high, calling for silence a final time. “May his life be full of the same joy he brings to us!” 

The cheer echoed through the forest and Thranduil noted the men, one of which was trying very hard to remain casual and another who had gone pale and was whispering to his table, no doubt translating the importance of the feast. Mentally, Thranduil dismissed them. Ornor had assembled his people to run interference and alay whatever panic the Men felt so that they did not interrupt Thranduil’s day with his son. 

Liphen, for his part, handled the attention with a small wave and a confused frown. As Thranduil sat the boy snapped his fingers, demanding attention from both Thranduil and Legalos. 

“ I am not a small child, ” he noted and Thranduil smiled indulgently. All his children had spent their forties making the same protest. Liphen’s frown deepened. “ Truly. I am- ” the sign was in his own language and Liphen sighed when he realized that numbers were something he had not yet been taught. Given Legolas’s expression that would be rectified in the coming days. 

Liphen stretched his fingers out on both palms, flashing all ten fingers four times before holding one hand with five and two, and Thranduil felt a thrill. There was no chance that Liphen was not a child but he did truly look on the cusp of majority. Even if he was mortal he clearly aged more slowly and Thranduil’s heart admittedly swelled at the idea of having possible centuries with the boy instead of mere decades.  

“Forty-seven,” Legolas translated into sign while positively glowing at the news. He was one the youngest Elf in the Kingdom and had attended a Coming of Age Ceremony at Rivendell once. He had been delighted and talked of nothing else for weeks. “It has been a long time since an Elf has celebrated taking their first steps to adulthood. Will three years be enough time to plan? Will we invite Rivendell, or the Lady of the Golden Wood?” His smile was bright as Liphen’s was apprehensive and Thranduil that it was too soon to talk of what a fiftieth birthday would require. Let them see how he handled tonight before declaring that all of Middle Earth should visit. 

Thranduil placed a hand on Legolas’s shoulder. “Peace. We will plan another feast once we have celebrated this one.”

Legolas nodded at the light chastisement but he looked no less thrilled. Liphen, however, looked utterly bewildered. “ How old are you?” 

Thranduil chuckled, knowing that without a common language the number would be meaningless and it had been far too great to flash on his fingers millennia ago. 

Liphen looked unduly upset and Thrunduil almost felt guilty at his distress, but it faded toon enough to  surprise when the first course was served. “Butter poached fish,” Thranduil described, “and a pea salad.” Liphen took a hesitant bite before perking up. He turned to Thranduil, fork still in his mouth, and smiled as though he had not tried to declare himself an adult moments ago.

Legolas shook with laughter, though no sound escaped his lips because Thranduil was not certain that Liphen would take it with pleasure and not offense. Soon the fish was done, replaced by duck in a cherry sauce served beside heaps of carrots. Next came another salad and then the venison before the meal ended on a berry pie served with fresh cream. Liphen looked absolutely delighted and Thranduil’s smile was small but genuine, pleased that whatever misgivings the boy had about the evening were placed aside. 

Once the meal was finished tables were pushed aside so the dancing could begin. Thranduil leaned back, content to watch for now as Legolas pulled Liphen to the floor and began to teach him the steps to the merry jaunt. Liphen laughed as he followed along, picking up the footwork as fast as he apparently picked up notes. 

Instead of Amdirchand appearing to him with more wine it was Ornor who came, bearing a cup and news. 

“The Dwarves have arrived.” Thranduil checked the sky, noting that the Dwarves had arrived with their expected rudeness. If they had been expecting to be fed they would have held up the meal for everyone or pressed the issue of their hosts being poor for starting without them. 

Thranduil had little qualm about being a bad host. “Have they been shown to their quarters?”

“Of course.”

“Allow me to guess,” Thranduil said, “you, as a mere servant, have been ordered to fetch the King,” as though Thranduil was a dog waiting to be called upon, in his own Kingdom no less.

Ornor smirked. “I have been ordered to inform the King that the Dwarves wish to speak with him, for they are mightily concerned about the festivities they heard when they entered the Kingdom and greatly displeased with their food.”

“Oh?” Thranduil asked lightly. “We have offered them but the freshest greens from our gardens. Where could they possibly find insult?” He waved a hand. “As for the festivities, tell them it was Elven business that they need not worry themselves over. They will have my full attention tomorrow.”

Ornor’s smirk smoothed away as though he did not delight in the frustrations he was about to heap upon their unwanted guests. “I will send them your regrets, My King.” He stepped away, vanishing into the party. Thranduil knew he would treat himself to some wine before returning to the Dwarves. 

Let them stew. 

Yet since he was here, Thranduil thought now was a fine time to indulge in the last structured event of the night. He stood again and the band went quiet. “My people. We have all heard that Liphen has the gift of music, though not all have heard it. And though I have heard him play once before, my heart swells that he has promised us a song.”

“A song!” called Astordil, as though she did not frequent Melinde’s Hall more often than Liphen. 

Everyone moved off to the edge of the clearing, leaving Liphen standing in the centre, his violin tucked under an arm, though Thranduil did not know where he had been hiding it. Perhaps he had Míwen fetch it? 

Liphen began to sign and Legolas spoke so those he might not see his hands would understand his words. 

“I have seen many things,” Legolas spoke, “some of which I believe you have not.” Legolas did not betray it but Thranduil suspected he shared Thranduil’s curiosity. “I do not know if you have a word for it, but this is a song I learned in a land of sand and wind. It is called the Requiem of Spirit.”

He settled the violin under his chin relaxing, and drew the bow. 

The first note was sombre, almost desolate. It felt like looking and seeing nothing for miles and Thranduil physically jolted at the conjured image. Even when there had not been trees there had been grass, there had been birds and rabbits and life. No, this song mourned the emptiness and Thranduil had never heard the sound of being so alone so perfectly depicted.

Then it shifted as though something stirred and suddenly there was life. It was small but not fragile, prevailing over barren conditions. As the song lifted came the realization that if there was one living thing in such a land, then there were more, and the land was not desolate. Its treasures were merely buried deeper than most. It ended on hope though Thranduil did not know if it was a hope to leave and find one’s way home, or a hope to uncover a rugged richness. 

The last note faded into the wind and Liphen set his violin down, gauging the mood. Thranduil felt stunned. He was thousands of years old and had seen much but in a short melody he had felt a level of ignorance stripped away. He knew the place of sand and wind in his heart. He would recognize it if he set foot there despite never having been. 

It was evocative. It was beautiful. 

When the silence broke Thranduil clapped the loudest of them all.

Chapter Text

Link laid face down in his bed, his desire to get up as dead as his feet. It had been decades since he had spent so long moving about and rarely for pleasure. The only pain came from the ache in his soles and the burn of his muscles that reminded him that he had room to move, that he was free. It was glorious and would have been perfect if not for the knocking at his door. 

Instead of giving up, Míwen popped her head in, noting that he was still wrapped in blankets and dressed in night clothes. 

“Too much mead?” she guessed with a smirk and Link shook his head.

Though his glass had never been empty he had been careful, having seen what too much drink could do. Amdirchand had been kind enough to fetch him water when he had asked, ruffling his hair as though he had done something particularly clever and Link suspected that there were those who had sought to see him drink himself silly. 

“Either way it is time for you to be up,” she ordered as sternly as she could manage and Link pushed himself into sitting.

“ I thought yesterday was about making me a Prince. Are you already committing treason? ”

Míwen clicked her tongue, shifting her weight. “You are just as dramatic as Legolas. No,” she shook her head, “the sun has already risen and Astordil fears she has killed you.”

Of course she had been behind the campaign to get him drunk. He slopped onto his back. “ Let her fret. I feel like I have gone a round with a dragon. ”

“Such exaggeration,” she said as she entered deeper and began to push at his feet, wiggling them from side to side. 

It was not. As someone who had fought a dragon, Link knew exactly how tired it had made him and though he had far less burns to show for it, last night had been physically demanding but in the best of ways. “Now up. You have duties to attend to.”

Link whined. That was a filthy lie. Legolas, Adar, and the mysterious Barad who Link had yet to meet would be sequestered with the ‘men’ and the ‘dwarves’, doing state things and Link had spent every moment he was not being twirled by one person or another playing his own songs. 

It had been a wonderful night, the food made for the sake of enjoyment and not some demonstration of wealth and power. The entire evening had been a feast for his senses, the music of Adar’s people winding with the sounds of the forest. The scent of trees, food, and flowers that had decorated the tables had filled every breath and the tastes had been beyond his imagination. 

But it had been the sights that had interested Link the most. While he had played, fireflies had curled around him, some so bold as to land on his violin as he coaxed another song from it, illuminating him from every angle.

But Adar’s people?

They glowed. Each and every one of them shone gently under the night sky, a hundred stars having fallen to the earth. Legolas had said if they bore too deep a wound they would fade and Link had not thought to take it so literally. Given that Adar had laughed when Link asked him his age, cooing when Link had given his own, perhaps that was what they were. Stars that escaped the sky to dwell in the forest. Mayhap overly romantic but Link had been in a land where the moon had sought to kill them all by dropping, so not beyond imagination.

“Up,” Míwen demanded with growing impatience. “ Sîrnith wishes for you to try her newest creation.”

Link groaned but sat properly, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. “ I am awake, ” he signed regretfully. “ Give me a moment to change. ”

Míwen scowled. “If you fall back asleep I shall come in here with a bucket of water.”

Link rolled his eyes and made a shooing motion. While he wished to laze about, he was the type that once he was up he was up for the day and there was no returning to sleep and Míwen had made certain that he was thoroughly disturbed. In a small act of revenge he put on a shirt that had not been stolen for washing. It was fairly clean enough, merely wrinkled, and he did not know if it would offend her but the tiny rebellion made him feel better. It would also save him changing a million times as he needed to bathe. The shirt would be taken for cleaning then no matter his protests, so it was best to sacrifice something that needed it than to uselessly add to someone’s tasks.

He also quickly ran a brush through his hair, capturing a tuft so he could twist it the way Adar had done last night, keeping his mind blank as he went through the action. He was not prepared to think about what it meant. 

Míwen knocked hard against his door as though she were trying to punch through it and Link looked to the sky, wondering if Farore could see the nonsense he had to endure. 

He opened it and without much ado, Míwen grabbed his hand tightly, pulling him at great speed. He broke the grip with a frown. He did not like being silenced and he doubted that Sîrnith was in such a hurry, but he still followed Mírwen at her set pace, pushing aside his own displeasure. Perhaps he was more upset at waking than expected. 

Link heard a voice muttering in panic before he turned the corner. It was lower than any he had heard so far in the Kingdom, and rough like gravel. 

He turned the corner and there was what had to be a Dwarf. 

Link squealed and the Dwarf turned to him, paling. Míwen reached to grab Link and pulled him back, her hand on a sword though she seemed to have no intent to actually draw, so there was likely no actual danger. 

As she let out a whistle, Link slid under her hand with the determination of a cat and quickly approached the Dwarf, who seemed to have stopped breathing. 

He was short. Taller than a Kokiri but shorter than how Link stood now, making him the only being Link had any height on since arriving in this Kingdom. He made up for it by being broader than Link, both in chest and shoulder. He had no extra length in his limbs but he was stout. Like a brick or an ingot he gave off the sense of being unbreakable. 

And the hair! There was so much! Link balled his hands into fists to prevent them from combing through. The locks looked so soft and there was just such quantity! He had a beard that reached nearly to his knees and the hair on his head was just as long. It had the slightest curl and was well tended enough to not frizz out of place. Beads and braids were generously interwoven in complicated knots Link had never seen before and his outfit was decorated with metal and precious gems. 

Link was fairly certain he had found the mountain dwellers of this land and they were magnificent. 

Link squealed in delight again and threw his arms around the Dwarf, the man as stiff as stone under his grip. He smelled of fire and forgages and Link could feel that he would love the songs of the Gorons. He needed to share. 

Míwen hauled him by his arm, pulling him away and ignoring his pout as he tried and failed to sign with one hand. He managed cute and music but her grip was ruthless and she began to hiss in Westron. Link had been taught some of it but the lessons had faded as he grew more fluent in Elvish. Whatever she was saying in her whip sharp way was faster than he could keep up. 

The Dwarf held up his hands, a blister of fear and bravado, and Link wanted to hug him again. Míwen scoffed and whistled and Tithendir materialized with a frown. He spoke to the Dwarf with equal disdain and Link was beginning to get the sense that this ran deeper than a Dwarf unexpectedly in the hallway, but he could not ask because Míwen still had him silenced. 

A kick to her ankle was becoming more tempting with every moment. 

With a snide comment Tithendir motioned the Dwarf to follow him while Míwen dragged Link in the other direction. “Do not trust Dwarves,” she spat. “They love nothing but themselves and their gold.”

Link turned to look behind him, the Dwarf already gone.

He doubted her words. 

x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x 

Thormok studied the room he was in. It was just barely on the side of propriety and only not terribly crass. It was just large enough for the company of six to not feel cramped, decorated with tapestry that were of inferior make with the stitching worn and scuffed. While some books had been provided, all in Elvish, there were not enough beds but sleep rolls of decent quality had been supplied. The Elven King had been an excuse of not having enough rooms for each Dwarf to stay and Thormok knew it to be a lie. Thranduill placed them all in a single suite, albeit a generous one, to ensure they were easier to guard. 

Though given that Vorfir had already been separated from their group due to the incompetence of Elves Thormok placed little faith in his host’s ability to keep his people contained should they wish to leave. Their weapons may have been taken at the door but Dwarves were sturdy as iron whereas Elves were merely flowers with bows. Thormok had no doubts he could render one unconscious with a well placed punch, though such violence was not his wish. Despite their mutual dislike, trade between Erebor and Mirkwood was beneficial to both peoples and Thormok did not want to explain to his own King why their efforts at negotiating had devolved into mindless violence.  

Still, as he waited for Vorfir to be returned from wherever he had been lost, he could not help but pace. The situation would become complicated quickly if the Elves thought him a spy as though Vorfir was here as anything more than treasurer. The Dwarf had been sent because he had a head for numbers, not deceit, and was important to ensuring that the trade agreement remained profitable so that the greedy Elves did not try to wring all the gold from Erebor. 

The door opened and Vorfir stumbled in under the Elf’s glare. “Stay,” he ordered, as though they were dogs and not guests, before slamming the door shut. There was no thunk as a lock turned but Thormok felt trapped nevertheless.

He hurried over to Vorfir and placed both hands on his shoulder, surprised to find him trembling. Dwarves were made of sterner stuff that a misstep with Elves should not be so concerning. “Are you well?” he asked urgently.

Vorfir shook his head and leaned close, speaking in their native tongue. It felt almost sacrilegious for Khuzdûl to be heard in Elven halls. “They have an Elfling.”

The shock of the words hit Thormok as strongly as any cave-in. “You are certain?”

“Even if I were blind to what Elves looked like, the way they treated him spoke for itself.” He shook his head. “I am not so learned to know exactly how old, though he appeared more grown than not, he lacks the mannerism of his people.” Vorfir leaned closer. “He embraced me the way one might an old friend.” He shook his head and Thormok felt his stomach drop, knowing that this was a worst case situation. Had he known there was an Elfling in the Kingdom of Mirkwood he never would have agreed to come. Elves were at least equal to Dwarves when it came to guarding their young, which was necessary in a people that had so few.

Thormok personally thought it was the will of the Valar that they did not breed like rabbits, as with their immortality they would sweep across the land like locusts, but the rarity of their children made them all the more precious. There was a great political divide between Mirkwood, Lothlorian, and Rivendell that Thormok knew would easily be set aside were a Dwarf to harm the child. 

No, they should not have come.  

“What did you do?” Thormok asked desperately. 

“Nothing!” Vorfir raised his hands in supplication. “I did nothing. I stood as still as a statue and let the child do as he wished. I may not be the wisest but I am so foolish as to instigate with an Elfling.”

Thormok slumped, letting his hands fall.

Dolara shook her head viciously. “We never should have come!” as though Thormok was not aware. They should not have, would not have, if Lord Ronolf had not pushed so insistently. He had harped on King Throgan for months, demanding to renegotiate a trade agreement that had stood for nearly a hundred years and though Thormok had not attended those meetings he had listened to the King complain even as he wore down. Lord Ronolf had become so bold as to threaten to create a new treaty that cut the Dwarves out entirely and as much as Throgan hated to admit it, Erebor had allowed trading with the Elves to become necessary. 

They could certainly cut ties if they needed to but to do so in an instant would take time to recover from. No, it had been much simpler to allow the Lord of Dale to organize a renegotiation of the existing treaty. 

Or it would have been if not for the fact that a fucking Elfling walked these halls. 

Ordvir looked more grim than usual. He was not prone to smiles in even the merriest of times, having even taken the birth of his children with a stalwart expression and had been brought along for his stern countenance. That and he followed his little brother around, glaring at those who would look down on Vorfir over his shoulder as he thumbed his axe. Even the King would have been hard pressed to separate the pair while sending one into hostile territory. “Orders?”     

Thormok paced, thinking. He would love nothing more than to cancel the whole affair and make it someone else’s problem in a hundred years. That was how long before Elves were allowed to leave the forest, yes? He would have no guilt making this the duty of his ancestors but they were already here and had already endured one day of gruelling negotiations. If they retreated now King Thranduil would see it as a sign of weakness in Dwarves and would be insufferable for the rest of his absurdly long life.

More so than he already was. 

Duty fought wisdom before Thormok had a solution. 

“Vorfir saw nothing,” he declared. Brokloh and Thralltog both looked skeptical but Dolara nodded along. Vorfir remained an absolute wreck while Ordvir took the decision with the same expression he took all news, betraying no thoughts on the idea. 

“The Elves saw me-”

“We are but simple Dwarves,” Thormok continued, “uneducated in matters outside our stubborn ways. It was strange to see a short Elf, but there are tall Dwarves so it was bound to happen.”

Brokloh huffed. “A short Elf. You would have us play the fool?”

Dolara yanked on a braid, making him yelp. “Yes!” she snapped. “If you hosted the Elves how would you feel if one wandered into a nursery?” 

Brokloh glowered, rubbing at his dark hair as though Dolara had pulled it out by the root. She had the strength and some days the attitude. If Brokloh proved stubborn he could explain to his captain how he had lost the braid denoting his rank by mouthing off to a superior. 

Thralltog hummed. “Do you think they will believe us?”

“They’re Elves,” Ordvir said. “They believe that we have difficulty walking and breathing at the same time. As long as we stick to the story we shall be fine.”

Thormok watched as heads bobbed with varying expressions. He took no pleasure into playing into the harsh stereotypes Elves had of his people, the pointy eared bastards the most ignorant people Thormok had ever had the pleasure of being inflicted with, but there were some concessions of pride that needed to be made. His duty was to see his people safe and pretending ignorance to ensure that harmed no one, especially since they had no ill will towards the Elfing. Well, none specifically towards them. 

They were still an Elf. 

“Now, to the meeting.”

As their scribe Broklog pulled out the book he was dragging with him everywhere where he kept a careful account of everything said by Man, Elf, and Dwarf, going so far as to catalogue their expressions along with it. He took a seat on a poorly carved chair, sitting at a table that of course had a wobble. 

Vorfir sat by his side, pouring over the book as he ran numbers with shocking speed, muttering to himself in common as he reviewed the offered deals to see where there was money to be made. 

The rest took their seats in silence, knowing there was little to be done until Vorfir had run his calculations. 

A click of the door had Thormok spinning, reaching for an axe he was not carrying because of Elven paranoia, though in a moment he was thankful for that. He also realized how foolish his plan was because there was no way the Elf before him was anything but a child. 

His eyes were wide and bright, framed by short golden hair and he cursed Vorfir for failing to mention that detail. Though many Elves were fair, few who hailed from Mirkwood were colored just so. It was, however, a known trait in the bloodline of the King of the forest, and Thranduil was a dragon when he came to his children. Thormok did not know why but others of his Kingdom carried the story and Thormok’s advice before leaving Erebor had come directly from the lips of King Throgan.

Lay no hand on the Princes of Mirkwood. No matter what insult offered, no matter what pride need be swallowed, they were to be untouched for Thranduil would wage war in their name. 

It was why Thormok did not just bodily haul the lone Elfling out of the room. 

Instead he stared at the child who stared back with unmasked curiosity. As though he was not intruding the boy walked fearlessly up to Thormok, for what fear would the child of Thranduil need feel in his own Palace, and made a stroking gesture, though no words accompanied it. 

Thormok blinked, unsure of what was being asked. 

In Khuzdul, Ordvir gave his best guess. “I believe he wishes to stroke your hair as though you were a pet.” The boy pointed at Ordvir and nodded. 

The boy pointed at Ordvir and nodded .

Suddenly Thormok’s orders to not harm a Prince of Mirkwood were called into question for no Elf should know the sacred tongue of the dwarves. It was kept to their people and had never been shared with a single outsider. It was not done and for one Elfing to know meant that other Elves had to know. King Throgan would burn down the forest in its entirety for such an insult. 

The boy cocked his head, obviously recognizing that he had offended, and began to sign with his hands. “ I did not mean to eavesdrop .”

Brokloh took a menacing step forward but the Elfling did not back down. “Where did you learn that tongue?” he asked in Westron with a hiss.   

The Elfing sighed as though he had been caught doing minor mischief. “ I do not know what you said. My understanding of mannish is,” he lifted his left hand and rocked it back and forth wearing an unimpressed face. “ Speak slow and use simple words if that is how you wish to talk. ”

Thormok signed and spoke in Westron. “You should not be able to understand our tongue. It is not for outsiders.”

The boy raised his eyes before his face fell into contemplation, no doubt thinking of a lie. Brokloh was practically growling but Thormok waved him back using his hand held at his hip. Even false information was information and the situation was so grave that the would need everything to report to the King. 

Finally, the boy began to sign. “ I am well travelled.” He ignored all six scoffs. “On my journey I meant a people called the,” the next gesture was nonsense to Thormok’s eyes. Seeing that, the boy tried a translation. “ I suppose they would best be understood as Rock Eaters, for that is what they dined upon.” Rock eaters? Did he think the Dwarves especially stupid? There was no one in Middle Earth who could eat dirt and grow like a plant. “They ate the very bones of the earth, and their tongue is your tongue. The accents are different,” the boy added, “but there is enough context for me to understand.”

Thormok motioned and the Dwarves huddled around him. “The insult of it,” Brokloh hissed in Westron, hoping the boy understood less than more. 

Ordvir shook his head, beads clinking as they banged together. “There is nothing to be done. This is a matter for the King.”

Dolara scoffed. “We ought to leave now. There can be no trade agreement with such deception. The Elves have gone too far this time.”

Thormok felt a headache brewing. His people were not wrong but they had all hoped for minimal complications, not the necessity of war. 

A snap of fingers had them turning to the boy, who looked thoroughly unamused. “ You know all the stones of these lands, yes? ” They huffed at yet another insult and the boy rolled his eyes as though they were the ones insulting him. “ If I show you a stone you have not seen, will you believe me?”

Thormok frowned, considering. His people had been digging through the mountains for Ages. Thralltog’s Father specialized in mining. No, there would be no stone that they had not seen and Thormok braced himself for the insult of it, knowing that the boy would likely show them anyway if he did not agree. 

“Fine,” he said with a sigh, over this farce. “Thralltog will examine it.”

The Dwarf held out his hand expectantly, though already unimpressed.  

The boy reached a hand to his hip and pulled from his bag a hunk of silver ore. It was crafted to resemble a hexagonal gem, longer on the sides. Pretty work on unremarkable material carried around the way a child would find a flower and declare themselves rich. Yet Thralltog lifted it close to his face, eyes widening, as though he found something unique. 

He swiped a thumb over the surface of the metal and it sang. 

The boy caught it as it fell from Thralltog’s hands, looking smug while the others frowned at him. “Spellwork does not make silver new,” he practically spat but Thralltog was shaking his head. 

“That was not silver nor even mythril.” He stared at the stone and the boy gamely passed it to him again, the Dwarf holding tight as he swiped again, the metal letting out its short merry tune. “It is a gemstone that was buried deep and is pleased to have been found.” He tapped it with a finger and it sang again. “There is no enchantment on the stone. It is just as some glow, this one sings.” Thralltog shook his head in wonder. “There are no stories of such things, even in Elven histories.

“He has done as promised. This gemstone is not from these lands.”

Thralltog passed it to Thormok and the moment it rested in his hands he could feel he had the right of it. It was not ore and where he thought it was a solid silver it revealed to be translucent, the shadows of his own fingers visible on the other sides. He ran a finger over it and it vibrated as it sang but did not glow or betray itself in any other way. He did not feel influenced by the stone and knew he could pass it back with ease. 

It was perfectly strange.

He looked the boy dead in the eye. “ Tell me of the Stone Eaters. ” 

x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x

Link was having a delightful time.

He had kept the sets of silver rupees from his dungeon explorations out of a desire to hoard more than anything. They could not be spent at the market and cracked too unpredictably to be set in jewellery. In their natural form they were too large and unwieldy to do anything with. 

Except entertain the Dwarves, apparently. They passed the stone along endlessly, proking, prodding, and even licking it. They rubbed it against paper, though Link had to stop them from tapping it with a small hammer, quickly explaining that it would shatter instead of chip. Instead of being skeptical they had seemed even more fascinated. 

He told stories of the Gorons and his heart bled, like an infected wound releasing the pus. Link had been tentative friends with the Kokiri, always the odd one out for his lack of fairy. Saria had been a good companion, had been one of his best friends, but it was Darunia who had first named him a brother, who had first claimed Link as family . That meant something. 

He had not offered Link a home for how could he? Volcanoes were not exactly places where a Hylian could thrive, but he had always put aside his duties to greet Link, had named his son after Link in two timelines.

He did not know if Darunia had agreed to Link’s imprisonment, if he had helped carve the stone that had buried him away from the world. 

So he spoke of the good. The Dwarves did not know he was not supposed to have anything of his old life which meant he did not have to hesitate to pull out small examples of their craftsmanship. He showed them the bracelet that had given him extra strength as a child, far too small for him now, and a statue that he had bought on a whim. It was made with care though highly stylized. 

The Dwarves studied everything Link presented with fascination and Link imagined it was how he would have behaved if he had been told of the Elves without ever having met them. There was a people out there that had the same and different, carrying the same fundamental connection with the land that was the foundation of their society. Link could wistfully imagine Darunia calling these men brother, how they would react as he came at them with a hug. 

Though the misunderstanding of Link understanding a language that was apparently known to no one but the Dwarves had cooled, they had still extracted the promise that he would teach no one. 

He had agreed while giving the Dwarf the driest stare he could, the one with the most beads laughing so hard he tipped over as they realized that Link could not exactly sound out their tongue. 

Then had come a push of the door. The Dwarves all pulled faces of fear and bravado and Link realized that perhaps it would not be him to bear the consequences of him being in places where he should not be. He exhaled, letting the wind take him.

X-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x

Thormok weathered the guard’s question by lying his ass off and speaking in half truths, the skill that had finalized his place on this venture. No, he had not seen the Elfing, if that was what he was. He looked like one but it was doubtful he was from Middle Earth. The stone had opened the door to belief, but the boy had offered more as he woven stories that were rich enough to wash away all skepticism. It would also explain why he was so kind to the Dwarves, showing none of the scorn of the people who claimed him. 

That and the magic.

There was no way the boy had used anything but, vanishing as he rolled to leave the Dwarves to their denials, the only proof he had been there was a stone tucked hastily behind a back.

No, the boy was from Middle Earth as much as that gem was. Someone could have told Thormok the boy was of Gandalf’s people and he would believe.

Still, it was the Elves who claimed and the Elves who saw him as a child. The boy seemed to accept the role easily enough. The only challenge he would make to that claim would be treating the child with the easy respect he offered the Dwarves. 

Though it was unlikely he would see him again. The child had slipped his guard. No doubt it would double while there were strangers in the Palace.

Thormok did not envy the boy.

Chapter Text

Adar looked very out of place wearing his finery in the kitchen. Link knew he should be focusing on other things, like the lecture he was receiving for ‘wandering’ when he had promised not to but he felt it was appropriate to be concerned about how the outfit would need to be laundered if it was brushed with flour.

Besides, the lecture was undeserved. Firstly, he had agreed that it might be unwise without Legolas there to escort him, especially since Míwen seemed to grow increasingly distracted, her usually waspish vitriol turning positively toxic. He was not certain that Adar knew of Míwen increasing mania but Link saw little reason to bring it up. The Dwarves already had everyone in a tizzy. 

Secondly, he had not ‘wandered.’ Wandering would have been leaving the Palace, either by slipping through the front doors or clambering over the garden walls. He could not deny that he itched to explore the woods. They felt dark and wild, the way the Lost Woods had during Gannondorf’s reign and Link knew there was a plague needing to be routed out. He was a bit out of practice but he was likely still up for the task, ready to add another nightmare to the pile. It would be a tidy thank you gift for all the consideration the Elves had shown him. But Link had promised no to wander so he had not. 

He did, however, explore.

Which was very different from wandering. He may have shaken Míwen, a task made increasingly easy by whatever was preying upon her mind, but he did not go outside. He had just searched for places that he may not necessarily be allowed even with supervision. He had found where the guards slept, showing great restraint by not touching a bow laid up against the wall.

He had found the wine cellar and had gamely joined a few rounds of dice of guards who were doing anything but guarding, before being banished for having the…someone’s? own luck. There had been an entire room dedicated to cheese and Link had maybe, just maybe , claimed a small roll for himself. He was a decent enough cook, though he had run out of ingredients long ago,  and not having anyone to watch him had allowed him to put his conscience aside for a moment.

It was a very small roll of cheese. 

He had also found a room of clay pots, though he had not entered, quickly closing the door lest temptation get the better of him.  

But where Adar had housed the Dwarves had certainly been his greatest discovery and since he already knew where they were it was not technically exploring any more, making it that much more removed from the concept of ‘wandering’. 

“Strangers in these halls make them dangerous ,” Adar stressed and Link nodded solemnly, as though he had not defeated the greatest evils that Hyrule had ever faced, starting his first trial less than an hour of holding a sword for the first time. He was perfectly capable of keeping himself safe; the Dwarves seemed like they had no ill intent. Link did not know enough about Men but given everyone’s exaggerated hatred of the Dwarves he doubted they posed much of a threat either. 

Adar sighed. “Just…stay with Míwen and Tithendir .”

Link nodded solemnly, already thinking of ways to slip his leash.

In the end it was easy. Melinde’s Hall was crowded and all Link had to do was say he was getting a drink and then stand up. Míwen barely acknowledged him as he left and Tithendir trusted him enough by reputation to believe that it would take a stick to pry Link out of the music hall. 

Little did they know he had more interesting places to be. 

For most of the journey he used his feet. Farore’s Wind took magic and so far he had found no way of restoring it through any means save sleep. It was also dizzying. Short bursts were fine but the longer he rode the spell the more disorienting it became. He needed it to slip past the guards on the hall where the Dwarves were staying before being the gust that slid under their door. 

X-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x

Thormok felt a breeze stir in the room and he did not need to turn his head to know the Not Elfling was there. He bit back a growl of frustration. King Thranduil was a prick, very self aware of that fact, and he held no guilt or shame for his behaviour. His stipulations were not only unreasonable but fantastical, offering nothing while demanding ridiculous concessions, though Thormok was not certain as to whether he truly thought he would be catered to or if he merely planned to make everyone suffer while they were there. Thormok was beginning to suspect that the Elf King thought this was just as large of a waste of time as the Dwarf King did, though he had no idea what kinds of pressures would have caused King Thranduil to agree to host. 

The Crown Prince Barad was a meaner version of his Father, cutting where Thranduil was rude, and while Prince Legolas was hardly welcoming, he treated everyone, including his father, with the same level of annoyance. He obviously felt his time was better utilized elsewhere and Dolara was already taking bets as to when he would stop showing up to negotiations. 

Lord Ronolf’s men, because of course the Lord was too busy to come himself, seemed bewildered, as though he did not understand how the choices in his life had brought him to this moment. Thormok did not care about the man’s self-reflection; he just wanted him to assert some dominance so together they could get the Elves to budge on at least something . All in all the day had been nothing but a waste of air and had left Thormok with an unspent temper. 

While the child was a curiosity, he was not one that the Dwarves had time for. 

Broklog must have felt the same, though apparently he has already burned through his patience for the day. “We are busy!” he snapped, thumbing his way through the pages as he scowled at the proof of just how poorly things were going. If Thranduil remained set in his opinions they would not return home before the first breath of winter. 

The boy titled his head as he strode across the room with the confidence of a puppy with a new smell and Thormok was certain he was taking in how ill at ease the Dwarves were. He paused, thinking, and Thormok desperately hoped he was calling on his magic to leave, when the boy dropped something heavy on the table. 

It was a wheel of cheese.

Not a small wheel that might vanish during the night as friends nibbled and swapped stories by the fire. No, this was easily the size of Thormok’s head and called to him under the candle light. The Elves had been feeding them nothing but vegetables, the fare fancy enough that Dolara could not lodge a complaint without sounding ingracious, but it was counted as a slight that the Dwarves would remember. They all longed for something rich to wash away the flavor of leaves. 

And there was a wheel of cheese. 

Dolara reached out to touch the bounty and the boy pulled it, inching it back towards himself and Thormok exhaled to stop from growling. Of course this was a negotiation. The boy had been around Elves too long.  “What do you want for it?” he asked, carefully not scowling lest the boy take offense.

And the cheese. 

“ Stories. Songs. I have told you of some of mine so I would ask for yours in turn. This land is strange to me and untravelled and while the Elves speak of the trees and the sky I would hear tales of the mountains and fire. ” 

Ordvir quickly smacked a hand over Vorfir’s mouth, stalling any immediate agreement. It was an Elven deal and for a moment Thormok wondered if this boy and his magic and singing stones might be yet a ploy, but he had seen the sincerity of the boy when he spoke of the Stone Eaters, the wisp of longing he saw on his own Father’s face when he spoke of Khazad-dûm. It was not something so easily faked. 

That and his entire party was staring wistfully at the treasure. There would be treason if he was unreasonable about this.  

“Not long,” Thormok negotiated. “We are here with a greater purpose than your pleasure.”

“ Two songs and two stories? ”

“Two songs.” Dwarven tales could stretch as long as Elven ones and they did have business. 

“Two songs and a story today,” Dolara overrode, “and two songs and a story when next you come. Do not-” Dolara cut the boy off as he raised his hands, “-deny that you planned to come another day.” The boy shrugged, looking as unashamed as Dolara did when Thormok raised his eyes at how she had stolen his trade for a less favorable deal. “Do not look so sour. You have no idea what the cheese is worth and we are getting it for a song. The least we can do is be fair in our dealings.”

Thormok nodded and the boy smiled. “ I am” he made an unfamiliar gesture with his hands, “ but the Elves call me L-I-P-H-E-N. ”

Thormok could see why. Accepting defeat, though not truly feeling like he had lost, he greeted the boy. “I am Thormok. Well met, Liphen.”  

X-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x

Was this truly what having a sibling was like? Barad had never claimed that he had any desire to pitch Legolas in the river, but their circumstances were different and their relationship was shaped by the holes in their family.

While Legolas could sympathize with Liphen’s growing frustration for after the passing of his Mother for he too had been shadowed by a guard until his instructors declared him as proficient with his knife. He had chafed at times but he had understood and had never truly strayed.

Not that there had been much danger. Adar had allowed no strangers in the Palace when Legolas was a child. 

No, Liphen’s circumstances were different. Could he even use a blade? A bow? He may heal fast but he was just as vulnerable to injury as any other and while Legolas was less suspicious of the Dwarves' motives than Barad he knew that riled tempers made for poor decisions. 

Legolas was fairly certain that was Adar’s strategy though Legolas did not know what it was he was seeking to achieve. Even he knew Adar’s demands were foolish and while Adar had a shallow delight in the Dwarves’ frustrations it was clear, at least to Legolas, that his desires were at odds with his words. 

The door opened and Liphen entered his quarters, before freezing as he spotted Legolas. 

Liphen had the good grace to look as though he had been caught sneaking honey cakes but Legolas doubted it translated into actual guilt. Sure enough, after a few moments of staring each other down, Liphen lifted his chin.

Legolas pressed a finger against the bridge of his nose. “You need to stop worrying your minders.”

“ I need to stop having minders. ” Liphen’s hands jerked as he spoke. 

“The Palace is not safe -”

Liphen snarled and Legolas jerked in surprise. “ I do not need safe. I do not want safe. I yearn to be free and I will not find myself caged again, no matter how pretty it is. ”

“Liphen-”

“ I will not go back!” he trembled, his head shaking violently as he signed clumsily. “ I will not be put away again. I am not a- ” his hands twisted but the gestures were deliberate and Legolas knew he had fallen back into his own version of Sign, his chest heaving. 

Not knowing what else to do he closed the distance between them and pulled Liphen into his embrace, the boy shuddering in his grip like a shack in the wind, as though he might fall apart. He hummed and brought one arm up to play with Liphen’s hair, stroking it lightly as the boy attempted to calm down, his hands fisting into the fabric of Legolas’s tunic. 

It was not quick. Were Legolas a hundred years younger, had the forest not dropped Liphen straight into his arms, he might have called for help, to find one more knowledgeable on such matters, but he bore a responsibility to Liphen and would not shirk the duty due to his own nerves. His Adar had warned him that Liphen was not as well as he appeared though he did not think his Adar knew just how wearing the restrictions from the negotiations were on his youngest. Liphen had spent his every waking moment pushing for a little more freedom and while they were beginning to treat him as though he were unruly, Legolas was beginning to suspect that they were in the wrong. 

The boy had been collared. 

A fact that Legolas found easy to forget was one that had come back to haunt him. 

Liphen had been collared. 

He waited until the boy’s breathing had eased, saying nothing of the wet spot on his own shoulder.  “We are trying,” Legolas said, “and I can see in this regard we are failing you. What do you need?”

Liphen pushed himself back and even red eyed Legolas could feel that gaze in his fëa. “ I need outside. ”

“You have Emil’s Garden,” he said softly. “I thought you were pleased with that.”

Liphen looked away. “ That is a garden, a tamed place that is not meant to hold anything forever. Even the plants come and go with the seasons. Where are the wild things? Where are the trees and the rivers? The wolves and the owls? There is a world beyond that garden, a place your songs sing of and I would see it.”

“You are young-”

Liphen snapped his finger. “ Did you spend your entire youth underground? ”

“No,” Legolas admitted, “But I also did not go trapezing through the forest. We do not say it is dark as a way to scare strangers. A great evil lives there and it claims Elven lives when it can. It is not safe. ”

“ No where is ever truly safe. ” Liphen signed ruefully. 

Legolas ran a hand through Liphen’s hair, giving a slight tug on the family braid. “I will speak with Adar about venturing farther. A true Elf knows how to use a bow, so perhaps you will find the training grounds adventurous enough, though you may not wish to return after you meet Tulus. He is a hard taskmaster.”

Liphen’s chin rose again and Legolas bit his cheek to keep from smirking. That would be an interesting battle of wills. “In the meantime, do not sneak off.”

Liphen nodded, rubbing the back of his hand. 

X-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x

The following day was… difficult. Míwen was furious with Link but he was not overly pleased with her either. He had little doubt that she was cursing him in front of whatever friends she may have, spilling threats like wine from a cracked cup as she showed her frustrations before all. 

Tithendir watched the pair of them with growing anxiety, wise enough to see where the situation was headed but too inexperienced to know how to defuse it. Normally Link would challenge Míwen to a spar and let her hammer against him until fatigue rendered her calm, but the training grounds were on the table for negotiation and not yet accessible, so that was not an option. He could fight with her in the halls but there were too many tapestries for blades to catch on for him to feel comfortable. He could manage where his own sword cut but he did not have the skill to perfectly redirect every strike against him.

It would also likely give Adar a heart attack. 

“Where to next, Liphen?” Míwen asked and what Link had once thought was a light tone he was beginning to suspect was patronizing. “Melinde’s hall again?”

Link shook his head. He was tired of the hall. There had to be more places to go. Idhreniel may need help with her horses again and it would get him outside. As he signed his desire Míwen shook her head. “I am not taking you anywhere that I cannot bind you to a table.”

Tithendir flinched. “Míwen, you go too far.”

She scoffed. “He knows it was said in jest.”

Link was not certain Míwen said as much in jest as she claimed. Perhaps he was imagining it, but he was beginning to suspect it was her opinions that were cruel, not her jokes. Or perhaps she truly did not know what a true joke looked like.  No matter which way it fell, he was done being in her presence. “ I am going exploring, ” he said. “ You may do whatever you desire. ” There. Now it was not sneaking off.

Míwen scoffed. “Try it.”

“Wait, no!” Tithendir called, already reaching out to grab Link. 

It took no effort to twist and dodge the incoming hand. Míwen swept her leg, intent on tripping him but Link hopped over the kick with ease. Having no interest in this fight Link spun on his heel and began to run down the hall, randomly picking turns. They were quick but they were not the wind and the moment he was out of sight he jumped, his stomach twisting as he rushed along to what was becoming a familiar room. 

It spun as he landed and he staggered like a drunk, landing face first in one of the bed spreads. He waited for the sound of mocking laughter or confused questions, but when silence remained with him in the room, realization dawned that they were likely still in talks and would be for a while. Truly, he should leave. 

Once the world stilled he would definitely be doing so. 

He just needed a few minutes. 

X-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x

Thranduil was a smart man. While Elrond and Galadriel held onto the power of their Kingdoms through Nenya and Vilya, Thranduil did not have such trinkets. Mirkwood’s survival depended on the decisiveness of his actions, which meant that he could make observations quickly. 

Cevon should not have entered the room. He served Thranduil well as a spy . Men found him easy going, his quick wit swiftly putting strangers at ease. He knew how to coax tongues to wag and what tale was safe to trade for a bigger secret. Elves thought him a bit of a gossip with his head in the sky while men were relieved that there was one Elf out there who was not obsessed with trees. This was further bolstered by the reputation that he had built over hundreds of years.

While Thranduil knew he has back in the forest, having come to report that the latest of Isildur’s line had an heir along the way, he was supposed to spend time resting, allowing himself to be with his people instead of trapped in the mask he wore when Thranduil sent him on yet another task. There was still a level of secrecy in what Cevon did, even within the Kingdom, so Thranduil always saw that his time here was his own to do as he pleased. 

Apparently someone had put him to work. Work that Cevon felt compelled to complete instead of passing those duties on, as was his right.

Whatever brought him before Thranduil was important, but the King did not allow himself to react, keeping his affectation of being relaxed. Given that Cevon waited until Thranduil formally acknowledged him, the Kingdom would likely remain intact for the rest of the day. 

Cevon leaned close and Thranudil tilted his head to make it easier for the Elf to whisper in his ear. “Your youngest has shaken his guards again, though this time he was apparently in a ‘snit.’ Tithendir is worried his actions will be guided by temper more than his usual curiosity.” Cevon sounded irritable, though it was less likely to be over Liphen’s vanishing and more on having to deal with Míwen. As a spy he knew the value of taking a life and he judged how quick Míwen was to advocate for violence as a solution. 

Thranduil was aware that Míwen was an issue. Were she not such good friends with Legolas he would have banished her to patrol where the Necromancer’s influence bled into his kingdom and allow her to fulfill her need to draw blood there, but she remained his son’s closest confidante and that necessitated that he keep her near enough to occasionally fetch. It was Legolas who had thought that Míwen would be a good fit for watching Liphen and Thranduil could admit her intuition in dealing with the child had served everyone well, but the situation no longer seemed stable. Perhaps it was because Legolas was no longer present, or perhaps it was just that the two were beginning to grate against each other. It may very well be that Liphen had simply reached the end of his rope when it came to having a guard and Míwen was incidental in this situation. 

Given Cevon’s tone it was unlikely that she was handling the situation with any degree of grace. 

“I will join the search soon,” he whispered back before waving him off. As much as he wished to stand and follow Cevon out of the room, there were still appearances to be kept and those that posed the greatest threat to his son were all before him. There was no true danger as long as the boy did not actually wander into the forest. So far he had only bent his oaths, not broken them. Thranduil had faith he was not somewhere overly foolish.

Legolas showed less restraint, nearly dogging Cevon’s footsteps in his haste to join the search. The Dwarven ambassador watched with shrewd eyes and Thranduil did not know if she had been sent because she was King Throgan’s best or if he hoped that Thranduil would give insult, as though he were too naive to recognize a female Dwarf. The men at the table had no idea and called her only by name so as not to give up the game. She was shrewd and so far, patient. Thranduil had to admit he would enjoy testing how far her control extended.

“Since we have settled the matter of steel, I think it is best that we move onto gemstones.” Thranduil spun a ring that adorned his hand lazily.

“I do not believe that we have truly come to an agreement over steel trade,” Ambassador Dolara said politely yet firm. “I understand that Elves may value labor differently, but the offer you have given us would leave many Dwarves without bread. We must come to an asking price that benefits both our people.”

Barad clicked his tongue. “We value our people as people, not by what they can do.”

Five sets of glares focused on his son, Ambassador Dolara once again a paragon of tolerance. “Grains do not grow under the mountain,” she argued calmly, “and while we too value our people, we are beholden to the reality that feeding them costs gold.”

Thousands of years of practice prevented Thranduil from raising his eyebrow, but Barad was far more rash. He scoffed. “If your people had any more gold you would call forth a dragon to your mountain,” he said coldly. “Or perhaps you are mere feet away from digging up another Balrog.”

Thranduil held up a hand, causing the Dwarf who was reaching for an axe he did not carry to lower his arm. All were ruddy in the face, even the Ambassador, and Thranduil could not blame them. Moria was a wound between the Dwarves and the Elves but it was not one that had ever affected Mirkwood directly. The Silvan Elves were untouched by that tragedy while the Dwarves of Erebor had lost much.

While it was a lesson of caution in greed, it was not a topic that Thranduil would ever broach with a Dwarf, no matter how furious he might be. He considered himself hard but had no desire to be cruel.

“My apologies,” Thranduil offered evenly and the Ambassador nodded. Broklog, the scribe they had brought, scowled as though the apology was yet a deeper insult and the treasurer looked as though he would cry. The guard, Thormok, at least  looked mildly appeased. “Our tempers run too high for us to come to any agreements today. Let us gather ourselves and meet again tomorrow.” 

“Excellent idea, Your Highness!” Ambassador Traston jumped in, obviously eager to escape the presence of the furious Dwarves.

“Until tomorrow,” Ambassador Dolara agreed tightly. There was no hesitation as the Dwarves followed their ‘guide’ out of the room and Ambassador Traston practically pushed past him in an effort to flee.

Once they were alone Thranduil turned a frosty glare at his son. “We do not speak about Moria.”

Barad stood and pushed himself away from the chair in an attempt to loom over his Adar, as though it were not a skill he had learned at Thranduil’s knee. “Why not? They care for no one but their gold.”

“They care,” Thranduil disagreed. “If they did not I could wash my hands of them, but they care about their people and their history. Moria is not part of the history of Mirkwood. We had no treaties and lost nothing when Moria was secluded. The Dwarves of Erebor have stolen only time from us and time is something we have.”

Barad staggered back as though he had taken a blow. “Only time? Only time ?” He snarled, wild eyed. “They are cowards! They drive orcs away instead of slaying them. If it had been for them Nórui would be whole! Emil and Lamm-”

“Enough!” Thranduil thundered, rising to his own feet, surprise and frustration warring. “You hold onto hate where none should be. The Dwarves of Erebor are no more responsible for Orcs in our borders than the Men of Dale. You know of the Necromancer and the growing threat. Do not allow your vision to be so clouded.”

Barad snorted derisively.  “It is you who see unclearly, Adar. You have been whimsical and soft as of late. Mirkwood needs a firm hand.”

“And a cool head. You will sit out negotiations tomorrow.”

With a click of his tongue Barad shook his head. “Foolish. It will be a sign of weakness.”

“A concession you have forced me to make,” Thranduil said in agreement that came with no absolution. “Now go. Find somewhere quiet to calm yourself. Legolas’s temper also needs soothing and I do not have it in me to hold both your hands.”

“Ha!” Barad barked, “his little brother is causing trouble?”

“Barad. Go.”

With a bow that was far deeper than necessary and overly exaggerated, Barad twirled a hand. “As you wish, Your Highness.” He spun on a heel to walk out of the room as though he was a great martyr.

It made Thranduil ac he for Calathiel. It was she that Barad would run to when his mind was worried and later, she who he would complain about Thranduil to after they had a quarrel. They had not fought much then but Barad was stubborn and short sighted. Thranduil lacked the ability to guide his vision past the horizon and he was truly beginning to fear what would happen to Mirkwood if left to Barad. His unreasonable hatred of the Dwarves was just another factor of his growing disquiet.

The current hostility was simply because Thranduil was antagonizing them and he was going to continue to antagonize them until they admitted that renegotiating was foolish. They would hammer out a treaty that was actually beneficial that would last a few hundred years because the story of how it was created would be a warning that would haunt the Dwarves for generations to come. 

But that was King’s business and Thranduil needed to set that aside and act as a Father.

Cevon was waiting outside the door and fell in step as Thranduil strode through the corridors. “Where all has been searched?” he asked. 

“Apparently where he usually frequents. Melinde’s Hall, the kitchen, and the garden. Tithendir has said he had mentioned wishing to go to the stables when the argument broke out between him and Míwen. Of course Idhreniel claims ignorance. Ornor has also not seen him. Legolas has gone to Liphen’s quarters with the expectation that he shall have to return eventually.” 

“Mm,” Thranduil hummed.  Nórui had been one for hiding when she was distressed, but the first place she always sought was the kitchen.  “Thank you. You may return to what you were doing.”

She would lean up against the oven, convinced that the fire would keep her safe. When that was not enough she would come to her parents. 

“What I was doing was searching for an errant Prince. I expect a bottle of wine when I find him first.”

“Of course.” Cevon vanished with a nod.

Liphen was not Nórui. Thranduil’s quarters were empty of children and while he knew he should not be disappointed, he was. He did not even know if Liphen knew where Thranduil’s bed rested and despite claiming the boy as his son, preparing for the trade negotiations had taken much of his time. He would have to be guided by intuition more than by knowledge, and Thranduil was not pleased.   

He sighed, trying to dredge up memories of his own childhood. The food cellar was empty of everything but food and the wine cellar had guards who were off duty and indulging. Thranduil was willing to turn a blind eye to the open cask of wine as all of them rose cleanly and evenly to their feet, still sharp. Some had seen Liphen, but only the day before, and eagerly joined the search. 

Thranduil allowed himself to be guided by further nostalgia. The dungeon was empty and unexplored according to its caretaker. The armory was as equally untouched. Supposing that it was the guards that drew Liphen and not the wine, Thranduil checked the guardhouse itself.

Apparently he was not the first one there. Nor was he the first one to the library, which he had checked more out of hope that the boy was now hiding because he was prideful and not curious. Thranduil was fairly certain the attempt at teaching him letters had been abandoned once he had discovered Melinde’s Hall. 

Were he not thousands of years old he would pull on his own hair. He was out of practice with children, it seemed, and it was likely that Legolas had the right of it, before Ornor appeared before him, far more cross than Thranduil had ever seen.

“He is with the Dwarves!” he hissed, and it took a moment for Thranduil to understand that Liphen must have been with the Dwarves.

The Dwarves that he had made so much of an effort to hide Liphen from.

The noise that escaped his lips was undignified, but Ornor had heard worse from him so Thranduil did not worry. He did walk as fast as he could without outright running to where they had chambered the Dwarves, the first thing to greet him the sound of singing. 

Of course. 

Of fucking course. 

The door was open when he arrived, Cevon sitting behind Liphen and adding another braid to his hair, one that clearly said rascal, though Liphen would not know, and Thranduil mentally marked the nicest wine he could afford to part with to go to Cevon. 

With the Dwarves!

Thranduil’s appearance cut the song as surely as scissors snipped a thread. Liphen twisted his head up, trying to look behind without interfering with Cevon’s work, while the Dwarves all looked a mix between guilty and defiant, though there was one who, despite being half Thranduil’s height, was attempting to look down his nose at him, and Thranduil came to an immediate realization. 

“How long has he been sneaking in here?”

The Dwarves looked at each other, rumbling in their own tongue, before Ambassador Dolara shrugged. “Three days.”

Three days. The Dwarves had only been here for four.

Barad was right. Thranduil had acted rashly when he had claimed the boy. Three days? He ought to give him back to the trees! Did he ever do such a thing to his own Father? Yes, he had his own childhood antics but never before had he simply snuck into visit Dwarves for three days!

Thranduil took a slow breath. He wanted to throw out questions but most he knew the answer to. Of course the Dwarves would tell no one, as it would frustrate the relations between them and the Elves. Liphen would tell no one because they would tell him he could not come, and Liphen would come because he was endlessly curious and, given the cheese rind on the table, had likely negotiated for the Dwarves’ time. 

Truly, there were only two mysteries. One the Dwarves could answer and the other he would have to shake out of Liphen. 

Three days. 

“When did he arrive?”

The Dwarves shrugged as one, as though they had practiced. Thromok, who had looked like he was most willing to forgive the Balrog comment, spoke up. “He was here when we returned, deeply asleep and we were loath to wake him.”

Because he was an adorable child that Thranduil was not going to skin. He had expressed an interest in the stables. Maybe he could muck them for a month.

Thranduil touched his face. He could handle this. “Liphen, it is time to go. Say goodbye to the Dwarves.”

Liphen stood gamely, as though he was completely unaware of how foolish and stubborn and foolish he was and said goodbye to each Dwarf by name. Before giving a little wave and easily following Thranduil out of the room. He fell in step beside the King with Cevon and their back and Ornor at their front.

“How did you meet the Dwarves?” he asked mildly.

Liphen seemed blissfully unaware of how much of his future punishment relied upon the answer. “ One was lost when Míwen took me to the kitchen. He was adorable, Adar, and smelled of the earth. Their voices rumbled and I needed to hear them sing. ”

Of course he did. This boy was going to be lured into a warg den because he liked the way it howled.

This was a problem for tomorrow. The Dwarves could enjoy another day of reprieve, if only to stew at Thranduil’s reaction. There was little he could do. They were in the right of it but let them think he was unreasonable in his temper. It would push them to their breaking point that much faster.

Or perhaps he could use this as an excuse to throw them from his Kingdom and end this entire performance. Lord Ronolf would just as like be upset but honestly King Throgan would be happy for the safe return of his people and Thranduil would be happy for the return of his Palace. 

A matter for tomorrow.

“ Where are we off to? ” Liphen asked with a smile that did not reach his eyes. 

“Your quarters,” Thranduil said curtly. “It is late and your disappearance has caused quite the upset.” The boy looked skeptical and Thranduil was once again struck by how little they knew . If he was as important as they suspected, would he not be used to his presence and lack thereof being noted? Would he not understand the need for guards? 

Questions that needed to be asked for the silence they had given him was beginning to create frustrations on all sides. Thranduil needed answers. He would not ask for the boy’s sordid history but he needed enough information to act on so that they could minimize the strain that was sure to develop through growing misunderstandings. Certainly, Liphen was Elven enough for Thranduil, but the King was beginning to suspect it was the adjustment to Prince that was going to be the problem. 

Legolas rose from where he had sat on Liphen’s bed when they arrived but anything he was going to say died as Thranduil shook his head. “Liphen is safe and he is going to stay in his room until you fetch him in the morning.”

“The negotiations?” Legolas asked carefully. 

“They can wait.”

Legolas eyed Liphen up and the boy stared back in what Thranduil was certain was a look of defiance that he would have to deal with well into the boy’s adult years. Legolas placed a finger on his own nose, a nervous habit Thranduil had yet to break him of. “Send for me when you awaken. I will hold my peace until then.” 

Liphen narrowed his eyes and Cevon gave a gentle tug on the braid he had woven. “Be grateful for the reprieve, brat.”

Like the mature adult Liphen claimed to be, he stuck his tongue out at Cevon. Ornor threw up his arms and Legolas buried his head in his hands, utterly done with the situation. It was up to Thranduil to get Liphen to promise that he would not leave the room for any reason at all until Legolas came for him. 

Once done he sent Legolas to arrange for a new guard for Liphen, displeased that his current one had allowed him to meet a Dwarf. They were loud enough that Thranduil could hear them breathe a hallway down. Such inattention was unforgivable and Míwen has earned herself another decade under Maendir. Thranduil was praying to the Valar that the Elf’s influence rubbed off on her.

Once his son was gone he motioned for Cevon and Ornor to follow him until they reached his own suit. He led them to a small seating area and pulled out three goblets and a bottle of rough spirits that he had traded for on a whim. It was an inelegant drink that no one would believe an Elf would partake in, but he had discovered there were times when it fit his mood. 

He set the bottle down, the amber catching the light.

“May I introduce you to whiskey?”

X-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x

Something was wrong.

Maendir braced his hand against the wall as the world spun.

Something was wrong and he needed help. Why? Why did he need- Oh. Something was wrong and he was guarding…something. Someone?

He was not against the wall, he was on the floor. That should not have happened. He needed to be on his feet to guard. 

Boots appeared in his wavering vision and he opened his mouth to ask for help, to explain. 

Something was wrong.

Chapter Text

Link lay sprawled on his stomach, forehead resting against a forearm, his left hand dangling off the edge of the bed. Today had not gone well. He did not regret abandoning Míwen but he had been too ambitious. The nap he had taken in the Dwarves’ quarters had helped with the dizziness but little to replete his magic. He would need a solid night for that but instead he lay here, thoughts circling about tomorrow. 

Link was beginning to understand that he knew the Elves as well as they knew him. They were smothering him in an embrace that was going from soothing to cloying, often citing Link’s age as the motivation for their behaviour, which made little sense. While he was no child now, even when he had been but a boy he had been facing down monsters that even a warrior in their prime would be hesitant to challenge. He had taken down an insect five times his size with a slingshot and a sword he carried for mere hours. 

He did not need protection. He was tired of protection. After all, had that not been Zelda’s claim? That she was protecting him? They needed to stop protecting him and allow him to breathe. He truly enjoyed being here most of the time but it was beginning to feel like a tightening noose and he would not let himself hang.

They would change their stance or he would leave.

But he did not want to. Even at their most frustrating the Elves were kind and Link had promised to himself that he would deal with the issue in the forest. 

But they were treating him like a child. 

Ugh. The thoughts circled, chasing each other like a dog distracted by his own tail. The cycle only broke when he heard his door open. 

For a moment he felt a burst of rage, for someone to come in to check to see if he was still in bed was beyond absurd, yet instead of the door shutting just as quick, there was a soft dragging and footsteps heavier than any Elf crossed the threshold. 

His body tightened. 

Something, no, someone , hit the floor with a smack and a voice shushed another. They spoke briefly in Westron, their words escaping Link, but their intentions growing ever clearer as they quietly crept towards his bed as though they could simply steal him out of it. His bag, forever at his hip, held several solutions to what was quickly becoming a problem. He was braced, ready for hands to grab, when he heard the clumsy drawing of a weapon. It was not a sword, too short for that, and it was not a knife, too long for that.

That was not enough for Link to identify it but it did highlight an error in his assumption.

One did not threaten to kidnap someone with a axe. 

He waited. Patience was important so he remained still, listening for footsteps. They circled around to the left side of his bed and there was a hitch in breathing.

Link rolled as an axe buried itself into his pillow. From where he crouched on the floor he could see three Men and a body, though no blood. Only the Man nearest him had his weapon drawn but with how quick the others were moving that would soon change. They looked annoyed which annoyed Link in turn. They did not think him a threat, probably seeing him the way Elves did; as just a child.

A child who they were going to kill in his sleep.

One drew a sword, the other a dagger, and the Man with the axe began to circle around the bed again, in an effort to corner Link. 

As much as he wanted to draw the Megaton Hammer he was not sure what it would do to the Elven architecture and he had no desire to collapse the Palace. His Giant’s Knife was too large for the space and he had lost his broadsword and shield to Zelda when Sheik had defeated him. Crouching low, he rolled under the next swing as he drew his own dagger, dragging the blade through muscle as he went. 

The assassin swore, at least Link assumed he did, as his leg gave out beneath him. Without giving him any time to recover, Link spun, jabbing the knife into the side of the Man’s neck. Even in the low light Link could see his surprise, the unfathomable idea of Link fighting back. Of Link being the one to survive this fight.

He twisted the blade and pulled it free, hot blood spraying across his face.

He barely had time to wipe at his eyes before the others were upon him. He redirected the dagger with his wrist, smacking it into the blade's handle to force it off course, but his chance to stab down was taken when the swordsman thrust his weapon forward, driving Link back. He took another swing and when Link redirected it the knife wielder stepped up with his own weapon. 

Link twisted awkwardly and ducked. They had good teamwork and he was beginning to suspect that they were professionals, which may perhaps explain their easy confidence. 

They were taking him seriously now. 

Good.

Link sprang forward, aiming for the swordsman, but as he brought up the blade Link snatched it with his right hand. It cut, though not near as deep as it should have thanks to his gloves. 

He brought his dagger down, slashing once through the collar bone before pulling it free. The man went down, his weight pulling Link along with him. He twisted trying to drive his elbow into Link’s throat as he flipped the boy onto his back. Link brought up a knee, slamming it into the Man’s unprotected crotch. As he jerked up and away Link dragged his weapon through his stomach, the blade cutting through the skin deep enough that organs began to escape. The assassin touched the wound as though surprised before he shuddered and Link kicked him off.  

He collapsed into a pile. Not dead, not yet, but Link had no fairy to save him and too little mercy to feel upset. 

He was forced to roll  to his feet as the final assassin moved in again, as quick as a viper as though the loss of his colleagues fueled him. His knife sliced towards Link again and again, speed closing openings as quickly as they formed. It was impressive and frustrating, highlighting that Link was, of all things, out of practice. Resentment he had no time for flashed under his skin. He could curse Zelda and Sheik later, when metal was not trying to taste his flesh. 

The opening came when his opponent stumbled, the mess of the floor making it slick. The knife still shot out, looking for a target even as the Man wobbled, and Link countered with his own blade. Using the opening he created to kick the assassin in the chest, the Man hit the wall with a choked gasp as he tried to get his breath back. 

He took steel to the gut instead.

His eyes, a soft brown in the candle light, were blown wide when Link removed the dagger before slamming it into his chest, higher this time to drive it through the heart with a twist. 

He removed his knife and the body slid sideways onto the floor.

Link rubbed his dagger against the side of his pants. He would give it a proper cleaning before he went to put it away, but the danger might not have passed. He blew upwards, a piece of his bang dangling in his eye, and silently grumbled as he was forced to move it with his hand.

It was tacky to the touch.

He had killed people before, had thrust a sword through Gannondorf’s chest as he looked him dead in the eye, he had always preferred to deal with monsters. Yet these Men were professionals and had come to strike and what they had assumed to be a sleeping child. 

Perhaps they were monsters. 

Focusing, he walked over to the body on the floor and saw it was as he suspected. Maendir was lying still. There was no blood, which was clever, leaving no body in the hall to suggest that dark deeds had been committed, and his breathing was easy. Link had no idea how they had managed to subdue him. He looked untouched, as though he had simply found an awkward place to sleep. Link rolled him to his side, arranging his limbs so the prevented his body from rolling one way or another so that, were something to happen, he would not choke on his own tongue.  

Link sighed as he looked at the door and then up and the roof as though to check for Three to see if they were amused. It appeared as though he would be breaking his promise to remain, one he had fully intended to keep, for he was not sure if Maendir was in danger. His word meant nothing in the face of a friend’s health. 

He pushed the door open, frowning as he left bloody handprints. Usually the fight happened before others were injured or while Link was alone. He had never been in such a hurry that he could not clean himself before the next step of the journey. It felt strange for him to be leaving traces of the battle behind.

Link gave himself a mental shake. He had two options. One, he could go directly to the healer’s wing and fetch someone himself but he was unsure if anyone would be there. They had always been attended to while Link was there, but it might just have been because Link was there to be tended to. Link had little idea if they stayed there when there were no patients present. 

Else he could search for Legolas. His quarters were near Link was not sure which door exactly belonged to him. Or even if he would be there. Legolas was always awake before Link and retired after. Had a bed not been found so easily for Link he would have thought that Elves simply did not sleep. 

So the healing halls, which may be empty, or Legolas’s quarters, which may be empty.

Why not both? He would knock on doors as he headed to the healing hall. Even if the room did not belong to Legolas he would find help eventually. 

The first set of doors he knocked on yielded nothing, as did the second and third as he followed the twisting corridors. He supposed it made sense. In Hyrule the Royal family’s suite had been isolated from the rest of the castle for privacy, though Mirkwood’s was rather small the space had been designed for many. 

He knocked on the fourth door, barely waiting for a response before he turned away, ready to try a fifth. 

The door actually opening caught him off guard. Adar was dressed casually, his face flushed and his hair in a haphazard ponytail. He hardly looked like a King and while Link knew royalty were not born wearing rich cloaks, it was still shocking to see Adar look so ordinary. It felt like Link was looking at him naked.

They stared at each other in silence, both absorbing the other’s presence. 

Adar was the one to recover first. “Ornor!” he barked, grabbing Link by the shoulder and sweeping an arm under his knees. As Link was hauled into his arms he had to shift so he did not stab someone on accident, “alert the guards and call for Galben.” He pulled Link into his room, carrying him smoothly despite Link’s squirming so he could get his hands free and tell them about Maendir. “Cevon, I need your eyes.” 

X-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x

Thranduil could feel Liphen’s chest expand against his, could hear his small grunts as Thranduil jostled unknown wounds, but it was the smell of blood that pulled at his mind. He had held a larger body and his mind whispered, winding memories around the truth of now. 

Was that breath even or had it hitched? Was the scent of blood growing stronger? Was it seeping between his fingers? Were Liphen’s eyes still bright? 

Would he live?

He had asked himself such a thing when he had cradled Lammoron’s dying body even though his eyes had told him that Elrond had needed to have already been there for his middle child to have any hope. 

Elrond was not there, a mountain range away with his own children who were safe while Thranduil’s son bled out on the frost forest floor. “ N-n-nórui?” Lammoron had asked. They both knew Calatheil was in Mando’s Hall. 

“She is safe.” Wounded and traumatized, but alive, due to Lammoron’s bravery. 

Lammoron had just smiled and left, his fëa dulling until all that Thranduil clutched at was the cold meat his son had once worn. 

He would not do that again, but when he looked for a wound all he could see were guts stretched across the earth.

Liphen tried to sit up on the carpet and Thranduil pushed his shoulders down, pinning him so that he might not further aggravate his injuries. There was already so much blood. Thranduil had been so close. How could this happen? Where was Liphen’s guard? 

“Stay still,” Thranduil ordered, though he did not know if it sounded more like a plea. “Let Cevon work.” Thranduil knew he could be of little help, his eyes seeing the past as present.

Lipehn squawked in indignation when the bloodied dagger was plucked from his hand by the spy, who used it to cut off the boy’s sleep shirt. Liphen fought, trying to knock away a hand so Thranduil grabbed him by the wrist, making promises he hoped the Valar would allow him to keep. Liphen would live. He would see tomorrow. Thranduil would guide him through the forest himself and show him the places his own Adar had shared, where the best berries could be picked and where fish practically threw themselves on his hook. 

“Adar!” Barad burst into the room and Thranduil drank in his presence. Harried but unhurt he carried a sword in his hand. “Who?”

“Liphen,” Cevon answered and Barad paled. 

“Nórui?” his whisper was an avalanche and Thranduil shook his head. He knew not what his daughter’s fate was, nor if Legolas was safe. Nórui had Guruthanar , who loved her the way a morning glory loved the sun. He was clever both in wit and with a blade. He had never failed Thranduil and the King held onto the belief that he would not tonight. Legolas, white responsible for his own safety, was well trained and often with Míwen. He needed to trust his people. 

Liphen lay bloody under his hands.

No. Thranduil’s trust was shaken, as was Barad’s. In a burst of speed Barad vanished to be where Thranduil could not, though he did not know if his son would seek out his brother or sister first. 

Liphen bucked under his hands and Thranduil changed his grip, collecting both the boy’s wrists and placing his now free hand on the boy’s hip. 

“Roll him,” Cevon ordered calmly.

Liphen slumped and Thranduil’s chest stilled so that his own breathing did not distract from his hearing. His son was still drawing in air easily while he was pinned on his side, and the cessation of his struggles were a blessing for it allowed Cevon to move faster. 

Cevon sighed. “The blood is not his.”

Thranduil blinked, uncomprehendingly. Liphen looked as though he had walked through a massacre. Blood covered him from crown to toe and he smelled of perforated guts. Thranduil knew no doubt that wherever the attack had occurred would be discovered simply by backtracking the boy’s crimson footsteps. Everything his senses told him was that the boy was injured.  

A grounding hand came down on his shoulder. “Thranduil, my friend, he is well .” 

Slowly Thrandul relaxed his grip only for Liphen to slide out of it like an angry cat. “ That is what I have been trying to say! ” his hands jerked. They too were tacky and Thranduil was caught by the way red caught the light. “ Maendir is unconscious but I do not know why. He needs help!”

“Help is on the way,” Cevon promised and all Thranduil could do was grab Liphen’s ankle tightly as though to prove to himself that the boy was there.

Liphen’s eyes widened and he looked at Thranduil, then Cevon, and then down at his naked chest and sighed. He threw back his head in that oh so familiar look of defiance and scooted closer, inching his way towards Thranduil before he reached out a hand as though to grab the King, but he froze when he looked down and saw how bloody it was. With a frown Link scrubbed his palm on the remains of his robe, as though the spoiled material would help at all with the mess. 

Thranduil snatched the hand and gave it a comforting squeeze, pushing away how blood and leather felt under his fingers. 

While Thranduil could admit to himself that he was not fine, he did not have the luxury of falling apart. He did not know how Liphen had come to be in such a state nor how Maendir had been incapacitated, if he still lived. Someone was clearly dead by the dagger that Liphen had in hand when he knocked on the door.

“Adar,” Legolas appeared in the doorway and froze as he took in Liphen’s gorey appearance. Galben pushed past him and took Cevon’s spot to examine the boy again. Liphen began to sign.

“He is well,” Thranduil said with an authority he did not feel, mostly to comfort Legolas. Given that Galben neither objected nor desisted the healer was aware of the statement’s true value. Thranduil trusted Cevon and knew he would be able to see a fatal wound, but there were a hundred ways for someone to be wounded that only a healer would catch. Thranduil could not accept that Liphen was unharmed until he was cleaned and surrounded by a dozen of Thranduil’s most trusted people. 

Legloas’s gaze lingered before he pulled it to his Adar. “Nórui is safe and Guruthanar reports no disturbances. Barad has elected to stay with her until matters are sorted.” Thranduil nodded, allowing himself to be soothed. He would need to see Nórui with his own eyes for the sake of his heart, but he could give Legolas enough faith to believe his report. 

“Maendir?”

“ Ceveniel attends to him, though she has had no success in waking him.” 

Liphen hissed and everyone’s eyes locked onto him, watching as Galben pulled off a glove. The leather should have protected the skin from the blood, leaving the skin pale and clean. Instead his palm was just as red, blood running down his fingertips as the pressure was removed from the wound. Galben wiped at the palm with a wet cloth, revealing a gash down the thenar of his palm, before blood burbled up to hide the wound again.

Thranduil’s hand jerked, twisting so that Liphen’s fingers no longer tangled with his but his hand was instead cradled by. Cevon grabbed him by the wrist and began to carefully pry the edges up and Liphen winced to glare and Galben as the healer put pressure on his palm. 

The glove slowly gave way to reveal milky skin and only station prevented Thranduil from sagging. 

The rag in Liphen’s other hand was already beginning to stain. “I will carry him,” he informed the others and Liphen had only moments to look confused before he was once again cradled in Thranduil’s arms with Galben holding the wounded hand, pressing tightly. “Legolas, take Cevon and see if you can determine what took place.” Liphen waved, likely in an attempt to explain, but he could hold his peace on the subject until Thranduil was certain he was not about to lose his fingers. 

Legolas nodded and took one step away before turning. He marched up to Thranduil and gently laid a hand on Liphen’s face before he spun and tore away to do his duty. 

The walk to the healing halls was both quick and long. No one interfered or delayed them but Thranduil’s awareness of time made every second last twice as long.

Several healers were waiting though a few were there to see to Maendir. Most joined Galben and as a pack they began to examine Liphen again, stripping away his sleep pants for any other wounds that may have slipped notice even as Galben tended to the hand, cleaning the wound to prevent infection before he began the process of closing it. 

Norin however, had obviously been set upon to monitor Thranduil, ushering out of the curtained area to give the healers privacy to work. “He will be well,” she assured him, mixing herbs into water. “I have seen lovers’ bites worse than his little cut. It is just in a poor spot.” She held up the mixture to Thranduil. “Have this.”

He held up a hand to refuse the proffered cup. “I have been in the spirits tonight.”

She scoffed. “I am older than you by centuries and I recognize the scent of whiskey. If you claim that such a drink rattles you then you are not fit to call yourself an Elf.”

“I wish to be clear headed,” Thranduil tried again.

Norin pushed the cup into his hands. “Then you will drink it. You are bordering on shock and this will settle you so I do not have to deal with a stunned King.” He did not try to argue again, nor did he drink from the vessel. Norin knew where her authority ended and it was not among the ranks as those who could force Thranduil to ingest anything. 

He did not know how long it took before Galben approached him and led him back to his son. 

An attempt had been made to clean Liphen. He would require a proper washing to clear away everything, but it made it easier for Thranduil to believe there were no more hidden wounds looking to make themselves known and steal yet another child from him. Still, the hand looked grisly, wrapped in so many badges that it was basically a tube and Thranduil braced himself to explain to Liphen that he had lost fingers. Thranduil could only hope they were not any that would keep him from his songs. 

“His hand is not bad,” Galben explained as Thranduil took up a seat.

“Do not try to comfort me, Galben. I need only the truth.”

The healer shot Thranduil his driest stare. “The truth is that he is a stubborn child who talks with his hands. The wound is not bad and I felt this was the easiest solution until it had healed lest I be forced to restitch it every evening.” 

Thranduil nodded, more relieved than chastised. 

“We also gave him something to help his sleep be dreamless. I know he is your best witness but I made the decision that rest was what was best in these circumstances. It is not like he will be able to tell you what happened until his hand heals. You are going to need to rely upon the guards to investigate.”

Speaking of guards. “Maendir?”

“Poisoned, though it may not be fatal.”

“Design or accident?” Thranduil asked. 

Galben sighed. “Who knows? Very few outside our own people are well versed enough to know what will kill us or what will merely incapacitate. No, you will not find answers here, My King.”

Of course. It was foolish to believe that things could be so simple. He leaned forward to brush Liphen’s bangs out of his face, the usually soft hair resisting as it was held in place by the blood of strangers. There was little for him to do but hold his son’s good hand, so that was what he did. His people would report to him when they had news. 

It was Barad who came, which was surprising. Thranduil had expected him to remain with Nórui until the threat had passed.

Barad wove the story. Maendir, mysteriously incapacitated, was dragged into Liphen’s room. Three men from Dale had entered, weapons in hand, had attacked Liphen and the agreement between the guards was that it was not to spirit the boy away. Someone, Likely Liphen himself, had fought them off before seeking help. 

“The men carried this,” Barad concluded. He passed Thranduil an axe of Dwarven make, It was an old piece, made from when their craft was in its prime, and utterly priceless. The blade was edged in mythril and the handle had filigree work rising up to frame the sigil for whom it was made.

Line of Durin. 

A message.

“Gather the Dwarves,” he ordered, stroking Liphen’s hand with his thumb. He gave it a gentle squeeze. “And the Men of Dale. Will you stay?” 

Barad hesitated. “I would rather go with you, Adar. You will need the support. Galben can watch him.”

“Galben-”

“-can do it,” the healer said as he swept into the space, a blade at his hip. “I am a warrior in my own right and the healer’s halls are hardly empty upon this night. A few more eyes would not be turned away, but I have faith in my people, My King, just as I have faith in you. Do what you must. Your son shall be kept safe in my care.”

Thranduil gave the limp hand another squeeze before crossing it over the boy’s chest and letting it rest. He bent over and kissed Liphen’s brow, catching the taste of blood. His lips tingled as though he had been poisoned and his knees felt weak. How strongly with the taste of blood stay with Liphen?

Thranduil should stay. He needed to-

“Go, Adar,” Barad commanded softly. “Galben shall send for someone when the boy awakens.”

Thranduil allowed himself a moment of weakness, to draw in a shaky breath before donning the calm facade of duty. 

He had a kingdom to attend to.