Kingsfoil [Thranduil] LOTR

Responsible

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A Thousand Years Ago...

Thranduil appreciated a good glass of wine as much as the next elf. His father had been a connoisseur, a devoted collector of the best vintages. Under King Oropher's discerning eye and with his impeccable taste, the wine cellar of the Woodland Realm became a collection without rival in Middle Earth. Thranduil learned much about wine from his father, not least of all his appreciation for a nice glass of Dorwinion red at the end of a trying day.

Or occasionally two glasses of red...alone in his study.

Or perhaps the entire bottle.

Thranduil was not drunk. The Elvenking did not get drunk. But by the time he finished off the bottle of Dorwinion on his own, his head throbbed. It was part of the job, he supposed—one never ending cycle of petty court intrigues to the very real responsibilities of overseeing an entire kingdom's welfare and providence. He would take negotiations with dwarves about trade routes any day over dealing with the headache of watching his wife and her father try to usurp more power and position in his court.

Thranduil groaned at the thought. Perhaps if he could just lay his head down for one minute, maybe two, he would feel better.

Except the moment his forehead touched the smooth plane of his desk blotter, he heard the door open.

"Galion, I said I was not seeing anyone else!" Thranduil groaned with his face still firmly planted on the desk blotter. Five minutes. Could he not simply have five minutes of peace?

"Ada?"

Thranduil cracked one eye open only to see a pair of wide blue eyes staring at him. "Legolas!" he said, peeling his forehead off the blotter and smoothing his hair. "You were supposed to be in bed asleep over two hours ago!"

Legolas frowned and his little shoulders slumped. "I can't sleep."

Thranduil pressed his hand to his forehead before manufacturing what he hoped looked like a warm expression. "Come here, little one," he said and gestured to his lap.

Legolas hesitated.

"Come now, my little leaf,' Thranduil said and held out his hand.

His son edged his way around the desk, climbed into his lap, rested his cheek against the silky ends of his father's hair.

Thranduil put his arms around his son. "Tell me what happened," he coaxed.

Legolas' voice was soft. "I don't wanna to be a sponsibwity."

"A what?" Thranduil craned his head to see his young son's face and grimaced the moment he moved—his head felt like an overripe melon ready to split.

Legolas toyed with the ends of his hair. "A sponsibwity." His lower lip trembled. "I wanted Mother to tuck me in, but she was too busy getting dressed. I heard her tell Nerina that I was the King's sponsibwity too." He looked up at his father with big eyes. "Am I?"

Thranduil's mouth thinned into a straight line. "Do you mean—Legolas, did your mother say responsibility?" Thranduil guessed.

Legolas nodded his head and then hid his face in his father's tunic. "Her voice was angry when she said it," he whispered into his father's chest. "I didn't mean to make her mad."