~Thranduil finds a boy in the forest.~

oOo

Túrin and Morwen by Filat

Adopted Son

Near the Doriath border, First Age 473

The hare was almost invisible against the snow but it could not hide its black eye. Thranduil aimed at that with his nocked arrow. He breathed slowly, forcing himself to hold the strenuous stance while waiting for the animal to slow its pace and be still.

A drop of sweat trickled down into the corner of his eye. It stung. The need to wipe his forehead was overwhelming but he resisted.

Finally the hare halted and Thranduil released his arrow. It hit the snow a few inches left of the target, which quickly scurried away.

"Cock." He scowled at the bow as if it had wronged him. Then he swung down from the branch he had perched in and went to retrieve the arrow. This would be the third night he returned to the cabin empty-handed, and that was bad. Really bad.

On a normal year, the spoils from the Autumn Hunt would last Menegroth through most of the winter, but after Morgoth's victory his orcs and wargs had come into Beleriand and they had butchered nearly every animal outside Doriath. The king had forbidden his subjects to leave the realm and thus they had to rely on what game they could find within its borders. The larders and cold stores were all empty now and they were even running out of fish.

Most of the march-wardens were out hunting presently and Thranduil's friends had thankfully managed better than he – he was the only of them who still had not brought anything back. It was humiliating, but he excused himself that he was not feeling well.

Physically he was fine, of course, but there was a darkness inside him. And his heart felt heavy. He tried not to think about the cause of that; he needed to stop brooding! But his mind would not obey.

He missed Aerneth and wanted her back, that was the truth of it, despite knowing they could never be together again.

He had threatened her. Just like his father, he had failed to control his anger. Nothing could justify his actions.

Oropherion. She would not even take his own name in her mouth anymore, and he deserved it.

As always when he pursued this line of thoughts – and he did that often – the shame and remorse hit him with full strength, in combination with his black jealousy over what she had done, and of course the what-ifs that kept nagging him. What if he had not allowed her to go to the war? What if he had gone with her? She might never have kissed someone and Thranduil would not have been angry and fought with her and all would have been well.

But if he was truly honest with himself all would not have been well. Their marriage had been a disaster from the start. He was a disaster.

No wonder your nana left Doriath; Aerneth's words came back to taunt him. They were true and that was why they had infuriated him so. He had failed his mother, failed his wife, and now he was failing his kingdom too with his inability to hunt.

Thranduil angrily kicked away a stone from the path. As if his personal troubles were not bad enough, there was the fact that the Dark Lord had won the war to worry about as well. Morgoth had wiped out nearly the entire Host of Maedhros and stacked all the corpses in an enormous pile in the desert to lie there and rot. The Battle of Unnumbered Tears people called it now, but its aftermath was proving to be even worse; orcs and evil humans roaming free in Hithlum and northern Beleriand, killing, stealing and burning homesteads, capturing the males and doing unspeakable things with the females.

Perhaps by now they had reached even further, to the western sea... Thranduil fought down the surge of panic that always followed on that thought, forcing his heart to slow down. Eglarest was safe. Galadriel would have told him if the situation had changed.

He was nearly back at the cabin when Faraion, the ellon he least wanted to see, joined him on the narrow footpath. Amroth, that traitorous so-called friend, had dragged the young elf along with them on the hunt. But of course he could not have known how much Thranduil despised the Gondolinian.

"Hello Tharan. Any luck today?" Faraion looked happy to see him, a feeling which was not in the least reciprocated.

"Sadly, no." Thranduil forbade his face to betray any emotions.

"Ai, I am sorry."

Beleg and Mablung dropped out of a nearby tree. The archer carried three pheasants nonchalantly slung across his shoulder.

"Tomorrow will be your turn. Do not worry," he said. Beleg had an infuriating ability to sound kind and concerned while it was obvious he was secretly gloating.

Outside the cabin, Amroth was busily cleaning out the entrails of a young doe and Thranduil went to help him. Some use he would still be. Thankfully Amroth refrained from commenting on his lack of prey; he knew what ailed his friend and why he was in no mood for banter.

"What did you hunt in Gondolin, Faraion? Must have been hard to find game in the mountains." Amroth had been bombarding the Gondolinian with questions about the hidden city ever since he arrived in Doriath.

"We kept mountain goats. There was this lovely vale surrounding our city, with the sweetest grass and flowers for them to graze." The young ellon's gaze became distant.

"How interesting. But did you not run out of goats after a while?"

"We bred them."

"Bred?"

"Aye. We captured them alive and brought them into the vale, where we fed them well. Then they became almost tame, staying near the city and birthing their young there. We only slaughtered the kids and always made sure to spare a few, and so the herd grew every year. By now there are several hundred of them."

"What a clever idea! We ought to take after that. Do you not agree, Tharan? Maybe we could breed deer in Doriath." He turned back to Faraion. "What did you feed the goats with?"

"We used some of the corn Princess Idril grew on the slopes of the hills – the kind used for lembas."

"Splendid. We can ask Queen Melian if she has any to spare. Maybe we could construct some sort of fence too so the deer cannot stray."

They kept discussing animal breeding for a while, and then followed another favourite topic of Amroth's; the war. Faraion did not like to speak of it, especially not about the dragons which had appeared late in the battle, but Amroth was too curious to leave the subject alone. Mablung and Beleg were much more outspoken about their experiences, but they had been in the western host and only met orcs, wargs, and balrogs. It was the dragons that fascinated Amroth.

"Do you think Morgoth bred the dragons in the same way you did with your goats?" he asked now.

Faraion shuddered. "I have no idea. But some were smaller, so maybe they were young. They were still huge though."

"How big? And how many were they?"

Thranduil listened intently to their conversation despite the sickening feeling any mention of the war still gave him. He was searching for clues.

Who was it? That was the question which would not leave him alone.

He suspected Faraion himself the most. When the young ellon came to Doriath this autumn, weak, half-starved and terrified, he told them he had been directed there by an elleth named Aerneth, whom he had communicated with through water. That meant they must have met in person first; Aerneth could only establish water connections if they had. What had happened during that meeting? Faraion was barely eight decades, far too young for her, but she would probably not care. He was good looking; almost as tall as Thranduil and with striking, raven hair. Every time he looked at him, Thranduil involuntarily pictured Aerneth in his arms, his hands roaming over her curvy body, their mouths intimately joined.

She had admitted to kissing another ellon, but what kind of kiss? Short, long? Deep? With or without tongues? Undressed?

Even if it were only a peck, Thranduil wanted to strangle Faraion, but without proof he could not do anything. It could be someone else and then Faraion was innocent. Maybe even Mablung or Beleg. Beleg Cúthalion who so often seemed smug, like he kept some interesting secret. Yes, he clearly loved Mablung, but Aerneth loved Thranduil and yet she had kissed someone else.

Or was it Galdor, that Falathrim with the long hair? She had pretended to like him before, but what if it was not only pretence? Maybe there were some real feelings underneath, and now they had been together in a war and one thing had led to the other.

At other times Thranduil suspected Celeborn. He looked a little like himself, blonde and tall, and Aerneth was good friends with his wife. Galadriel and Celeborn did not seem to be very close as a couple – Galadriel was too independent, he suspected, she would never lean on an ellon. Maybe she was busy fighting orcs and Celeborn got lonely, seeking out his wife's friend for some cuddling?

It could be one of the royal elves too: Fingon before he died, or Turgon of Gondolin, the new high king. Or one of the sons of Fëanor? It was not known whether they had survived; Faraion had seen them escape into the mountains but since then nobody had heard from them.

It could be just about anyone. The army was full of handsome warriors.

Not knowing was the worst. Thranduil felt like one of the dragons had settled inside his intestines and was eating him from within.

oOo

The next day Thranduil was tracking a boar when he heard the sound of Beleg's horn, a signal that he had felled something big and needed assistance to carry it back.

Thranduil glanced at the tracks in the snow. Never mind. He would probably fail to kill the boar anyway; he might as well go help his captain.

Beleg had apparently defied the king's prohibition of going outside the Girdle, for Thranduil found him perhaps a mile north of the border. The archer was proudly standing in a small glade next to the carcass of a huge moose, its large, flattened antlers sporting no less than fourteen points. Had he killed a stag of that size with only his bow and arrow? Thranduil was awed, but his face remained neutral as he approached him.

"Congratulations. A fine prize," he said politely.

"Thanks. Good of you to come. I need all the hands I can get to bring back this beauty to the cabin."

There was a rustle in an oak and Amroth dropped out of it, whistling between his teeth at the sight of the animal. "Amazing!" He dunked the older ellon's back. "I have never seen a stag with antlers of that size."

"I am sure there are some who have larger," said Beleg with false modesty.

They had just constructed a sled of branches and rolled the moose onto it so they could pull it with them, when a most unusual trio emerged from the surrounding woods. Humans! Two old men, dirty and bedraggled, with long, unkempt hair and beards, and a small boy.

"Halt right there and state who you are," said Beleg sternly.

The little boy straightened his back, unabashedly looking up at the twice as tall ellon. "I am Túrin, son of Húrin. But he was lost in the war so I am the Lord of Dor-Lómin now. And my companions Gethron and Grithnir here are servants of my House." He looked so proud and serious despite his dishevelled state that Thranduil had to hide a smile.

Húrin, he had said. So this was the son of the boy Thranduil had lost in his first battle. Humans grew up so fast it was staggering to fathom; it felt like hardly any time had passed, and now that boy already had a child of his own.

"What is your errand in these lands?"

"My nana Morwen sent me to stay with my relatives. She is the daughter of Baragund, who was cousin to Beren son of Barahir, the husband of the Elvenking's daughter."

"I see." Beleg's lips were twitching with mirth. "But Beren Barahirion no longer lives here."

"I know that." Túrin frowned. "I had to leave my home or I would become a thrall to the Easterlings, and Nana would not say what a thrall is but my friend Sador Onefoot told me it's one who has to work every day or he'll be beaten. And if his lord tires of him he sends his dogs after him and they rip his throat out." He formed his small hands to claws, showing how that might look like.

"Then what boon would you have of King Thingol?" Beleg sat on his haunches to reach the boy's level.

"I want to be one of his knights, to ride against Morgoth and avenge my ada!" The boy's eyes gleamed.

Beleg smiled openly now. "And this may well happen, once you grow a little taller. You have the makings of a valiant man; a worthy son of Húrin."

The boy's back straightened even further. "I shall grow fast." He swallowed. "I may need some food to do so, however. We have not eaten for days."

Beleg had some lembas with him which he gave to the starving trio, while Amroth hurried back to Menegroth to ask whether the king and queen would allow the humans inside Doriath.

When the young lord had eaten his fill, Beleg resumed his questioning. "You say your naneth is Beren's relative, but why has she not come here also?"

"Nana carries my sibling in her belly and could not go." Túrin's chin trembled slightly, showing how young he really was despite his grown-up way with words. A child missing his mother.

Thranduil felt an urge to hold the boy and comfort him. He was so small and lonely.

It struck him he might never have a son or daughter of his own; never carry a baby in his arms and hear it call him Ada. How could he be a parent when his wife had left him? The thought left a bitter taste in his mouth.

Then he noticed the face Beleg was making and realised the older ellon might feel the same. He too would never be a father, unless he entered into a loveless marriage of convenience.

Turning away, Thranduil blinked a few times, drawing a deep breath to calm down. It was what it was.

oOo

While Amroth was gone, the others made camp right there in the glade. Beleg sounded his horn for Mablung and Faraion to join them, and together with the humans they cut up and salted the moose. It would be a shame to let all that meat go to waste.

The next day Amroth returned with a message from the king: The young Lord of Dor-Lómin and his followers were welcome.

The walk back took much longer than usual, both because the boy was so small and because his followers were old – and in addition they were humans, with their lesser stamina and need for sleep. They were also very weak after their lengthy journey and lack of food.

But at last they saw the hill of Menegroth and could cross the bridge over the Esgalduin.

Inside the city, Túrin and his companions looked around in awe, taking in the beautiful quartz ceiling, the tree-shaped silver pillars, the birds and the sparkling fountains. When they entered the palace, their eyes were so big they threatened to pop out of their heads. Thranduil found it both amusing and a bit flattering.

Before they could be presented to the king and queen, the humans were taken to the guest rooms to have baths and get new clothes. Thranduil surprised even himself when he volunteered to help the boy, who was not used to that kind of finery.

"Shall I comb your hair?" he offered when Túrin was scrubbed clean and sat wrapped up in a linen towel on the narrow guest bed.

The boy nodded, his mouth full of lembas. He had been eating almost continuously the past day, probably making up for many lost meals. When Thranduil had helped him out of his bath before, he had seen how wretchedly thin the small body was, with protruding ribs and a swollen stomach.

"Can I have warrior braids like Beleg?"

"Of course." Smiling, Thranduil sat down next to the boy and began to untangle his black tresses with a soft brush. Túrin closed his eyes with pleasure, even forgetting to chew his lembas. In no time he was fast asleep, his body heavy against Thranduil's chest.

Looking down at the small frame with the still half-finished braids and trail of breadcrumbs on his rounded chin, Thranduil felt his heart swell with affection. Túrin was a mortal and a stranger, but he was also a child who needed protection. No matter what the king's decision might be, Thranduil would make sure the boy was taken care of.

When the old men came to fetch their young lord a while later, he still slept. The men wore fine clothes now, with their well-combed greying hair fanned out over their shoulders in the fashion of humans.

Thranduil sheepishly roused the child, mumbling an excuse that he had seemed to need the rest.

Túrin yawned and filled his mouth with more lembas while Thranduil swiftly finished the braids and dressed him in a burgundy coat and knee-high leather boots, clothes outgrown by an elfling of the distant past. The result was stunning. With the elegant outfit and braided hair he could almost pass for an elf.

Soon Túrin stood proud and straight before the royal couple in the throne room, promptly answering the king's many questions in that bold way he had, making him seem much older than his eight years.

Before long Thingol waved him closer and placed the child on his lap.

"You shall stay in my kingdom, Túrin Húrinion, and live here in the palace as my foster-son."

The assembled march-wardens and palace workers gasped in surprise. A human boy, to be treated so? Thingol certainly had changed since he met Beren in this very same room not long ago.

But perhaps it was not so strange. Elflings were rare in Doriath; the surrounding world had been troubled for so long and nobody felt the time was appropriate to rear a child. This boy was both beautiful and intelligent – like Beleg had said, he had the makings of a valiant man.

In addition, the fact that Thingol's own daughter and grandchild was inaccessible to him may have increased his benevolence.

Thus it happened that the king gained an adopted son and Túrin got himself a new home, much to the delight of almost every elf in the city.

❈ ❦ ❈

A/N:

Thranduil has found someone to love again, but is it wise to care so much about a mortal? And will he ever become a father himself? Well, at least we all know the answer to the last question. ;)

Image Credits:

Túrin and Morwen by Filat on DeviantArt, source: https://www.deviantart.com/filat/art/Morwen-and-Turin-143789580