Responsible

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Thank you to all my phenomenal readers! I am beyond excited to bring you the next chapter of Kingsfoil. Love you all!

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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."

"It's not your fault, Legolas." Thranduil soothed his son as best as he could, but his heart burned with shame. Elarien had made it all too clear to Legolas tonight that she was too busy for him. While he wanted to be angry with her for her lack of attention to their child, she was right. Legolas was his responsibility too. What of his choices this evening? He had retreated into his study for the night without giving his son a second thought. Even with his limited experience with fatherhood, Thranduil recognized what neglect looked like.

His head may have pounded in protest, but Thranduil paid it little heed. He scooped his son up from his lap and into his capable arms.

"Come on, my little Legolas," he told him. "Why don't you sleep with me tonight? And maybe in the morning, we'll sneak out for a few hours for a ride into the forest."

Legolas yawned just once and nodded his agreement into his father's chest. He was asleep in Thranduil's arms before he reached his bedchamber.

-  .  -  .  -

March 15th, 3019:

The worst of the fighting bled into the trees as the sun sank low past the horizon like a hot glob of orange wax, sputtering into a landscape soaked with blood and littered with bodies. The battle field had been emptied, the fading light leeching all color and warmth away from the dying and wounded.

Now the battle raged on under the trees, where orcs, goblin, and fell men railed against the elven lines, held by each and every warrior who knew that to lose the woods was to forfeit their ability to defend any other part of their beloved homeland, not least of all their Elvenking's halls. Dol Guldur's forces knew this, counted on it, and every step they pushed the elves deeper into the woods led them that much closer to victory.

The trees still burned in places, in others the elves successfully blocked or put out the fires, but the smoke choked the air and burned the eyes and lungs of both sides.

"Captain! Another charge coming!" cried one of the elven archers from a makeshift talan, hastily erected as a lookout post. High above, he saw what the others could not—yet another swarm of dark-armored orcs baring scimitars and axes and broad maces and spears streamed through the trees at a merciless pace.

"Our line cannot break!" shouted their captain. "We must hold them. Ready!" Beriadan did not have to say what all of his warriors already knew: there was no ground to fall back upon, for the section of woods behind them had been utterly consumed by fire, and to give up ground now could potentially allow the rest of their forces to be surrounded. He checked his sword and whispered a prayer to the Valar, for his warriors, for his king, right before another wave of huge brutish orcs sprang through the shroud of smoke and toward his lines of warriors, already stretched too thin, already weary from the endless onslaught of the enemy.

"Hold the line!' Beriadan ordered, even as he dodged a mace-fisted blow from an orc so large that he could not help but wonder if it had been cross-bred with a troll. He neatly side-stepped the next wide arc of the orc-troll's deadly club, taking only a split second to assess the damages done to his troops so far. His warriors still held their positions, but for how long? Beriadan winced as he watched one of his youngest archers fall from overhead, his chest pierced by a long black arrow.

Unfortunately, Beriadan could ill afford any distractions at a time like this, especially fighting an opponent bred from sheer malice and grief. The orc-troll roared its disgust at the elf's lack of attention to their fight and backhanded him, his swollen gray knuckles snapping across the elven warrior's jaw. Beriadan stumbled, losing his footing only for a second, but the orc-troll only needed half of that time to raise his enormous mace high into the air and bring it crashing down toward the elven captain's exposed back. Beriadan faltered and then threw his weight to the side, hoping to escape the worst from the cruel edge of the orc-troll's mace.

The mace blow never came. Instead, the elven captain's eyes widened to see a tall shadow leap forward from the fire-lit woods behind him and catch the orc-troll's mace mid-swing with a shining silver blade. With a great cry, Beriadan's savior pulled another such blade from his belt and beheaded the orc-troll in one graceful arc.

Beriadan knew the blade before he ever glimpsed the face of the one who just saved his life.

Thranduil had come.

He watched as his king unwound his long gray cloak from his head and shoulders, his winter-grass hair gleaming brightly from the firelight behind them. Thranduil caught his captain's eye and then lifted his sword high and cried, "For the Woodland Realm!"

Beriadan's mouth curved at the sight of his king—whole and well—and completely lethal, rallying his troops to hold their ground.

"To the king!" Beriadan shouted above the roar of the fire and the enemy's own battlecry. "To the Elvenking!"

Down the line, each elf, each warrior, each archer, each and every Forest Guard, heard the rallying cry pass his neighbor's lips and joined in, and in the heart of the battle under the trees, their Elvenking led the charge to push the final flood of orcs and Dol Guldur scum out from their beloved trees. Behind them the forest burned, and continued to burn, but no orc, troll, nor thrall would live to darken any path of Mirkwood. Following their king's valiant charge, the elves chased each and every single creature under the Eye's command and slaughtered them upon the edges of the battle plain. None were left alive.

Much later after the last fires lay smoldering and the enemy lay silent across the battlefield, King Thranduil called for his troops to return to their camp, which the majority of the tents and supplies had been spared due to Galion's quick thinking to wet down all the canvases. It was fortunate too that the wind had blown in the opposite direction. There, soldiers looked for their friends, for brothers, for fathers; the battle had not been easily won, and casualties were high. It would be some time before Captain Beriadan had a full accounting of all the dead and wounded, but even so, the surviving warriors knew already that the Battle under the Trees would long be known as a dearly bought victory.

The Elvenking and his Captain were among the last to return to the camp, and waiting for them, her long dark hair dotted with ash, was Narylfiel. She knew her king lived, had heard the rallying battle cry in his name sweep down from the center of the battle where the fighting was the most deadly to the outer fringes where she, Melui, and Elfir fought. It was one thing to know he lived, but oh, to see him saunter into camp, his glorious armor smudged and bent—Narylfiel's breath hitched in her chest in a way that had nothing to do with the smoke in the air.

Their eyes met a moment later, and Narylfiel swallowed softly. Across the way, Thranduil stopped mid-stride, causing his captain to turn around in surprise. It did not take Beriadan very long to pinpoint the source of Thranduil's sudden fascination, and smiling, the captain asked if he might be excused. Thranduil only nodded vacantly, his eyes still fixed on Narylfiel.

The king moved toward her as if in a dream, as if he feared that she might suddenly disappear before his eyes should he not be careful enough. The sounds of the camp faded into the background as he drank in the sight of her. How should it be that she have such power over him? For she truly did, he realized. He would have offered his life up in exchange for hers on the battlefield, just to keep her safe, just to see her smile one more time. His bond with her coursed through his entire frame, and his eyes burned hotly. A gentle hand touched his elbow.

"My lord." It was Galion. His earnest face peered up at his king's. "I am very glad to see you returned from battle unscathed and reunited with your queen. You both are weary and much in need of rest."

Thranduil's eyes slid to Narylfiel, and he nodded his assent. Then he took her hand in his and they both quietly followed Galion through the camp to the king's tent. Any elves in the camp who might have half-entertained the thought of approaching the king with a question was quickly put off the notion by the dark look in Galion's eyes, and more than one poor soul turned on his heels and cleared the way for the grim butler, the king, and his queen.

The king's tent stood in the center of the camp, larger and grander than the others, befitting of the Elvenking of the Woodland Realm, but like the others, its canvas had been heavily wet down to prevent burning, and even so, sported several burn marks and holes where ash had drifted onto the tent and scorched the canvas.

Galion walked in first, his careful eyes scrutinizing the quarters, making sure that his orders had been followed to the letter and that everything was up to his impeccably high standards. He noted with some disappointment that the canvas still smelled of smoke, but nothing could be done about that, he supposed. At least the linens were fresh and dry.

He cleared his throat and turned to the king. "I will send someone to bring you fresh water, King Thranduil." He bowed his head toward Narylfiel. "My queen." He left them then, pulling the fabric across the open door so they might have privacy. Galion quickly found a porter to run to the stream for water, and then the butler returned to the shady side of the King's tent and plopped down beside an empty barrel. He would take just a moment's rest while the king retired—it had been a very long day. With a contented sigh, the butler leaned his head back against the smooth wood grain of the barrel.

Meanwhile, Thranduil stood tiredly amid the fine trapping of his tent, but he only had eyes for his beloved.

"Valar," he exclaimed softly. "Look at you, Narylfiel." Soot streaked her face, but never had she looked so beautiful to him. He reached for her, and she walked into his arms.

"I have so much to tell you," she told him, leaning her cheek against the curved edge of his chest plate.

"And I want to hear it," he said, wrapping his arms around her, and finding with dismay his armor in the way, "all of it, but I need a moment first..." He pressed a kiss against the crown of her head and then released her with a sigh. "I should call for Galion to help me with my armor." Thranduil picked at the fastenings on his bracers, loosened them, and tossed them onto the table in the middle of the tent. His hands impatiently flew to his right shoulder guard next, his fingers moving under the fine leaf scroll work to find the clasp to release it.

Narylfiel watched him fiddle with it for a moment, her dark eyes taking in the sight of him standing there, from head to toe filthy and stained and splattered and glorious. Long white-blonde hair, his strong features and generous mouth—he never looked more perfect—even if he did reek of troll. Just being near him again was enough to make their bond together bloom warm in her chest, and she felt more safe and at ease than she had felt in ages. A laugh bubbled up in her throat as she watched his long fingers pull and push at his armor furiously trying to free himself of it desperately.

"Stop, Thranduil," she chided him, laughing. "You're only making it worse." She stilled his hand with her own and then reached underneath to free the clasp which held one side of the shoulder guard in place. "You are far too impatient, dear one," she said softly in his ear as she freed the other clasp and gently lifted the guard from his shoulder, setting the armored plating on the table.

Thranduil allowed himself a small smile at her ministrations and said nothing. If either thought of that day so long ago in his study when he helped to remove her shoulder guard, neither mentioned it.

She gathered his long hair into her hand and placed it on his free shoulder, baring the back of his neck. Narylfiel lightly trailed her fingers across it, eliciting a hiss and a low growl from her lord.

"I'm hurrying, I'm hurrying," she told him lightly. "Just a few more minutes." Narylfiel quickly turned her attention to releasing the other shoulder guard, but Thranduil caught her hand in his, and tugged her around just enough so that she faced him.

"Come here," he said, his voice quiet, drawing his hand from hers up arm to her neck and gently guided her head closer to his, her mouth close to his. "I have missed you so much," he whispered against her lips. "So much, it was painful."

Then Narylfiel tentatively closed the distance between them, his lips soft against hers. Thranduil smiled against her mouth and then deepened their kiss, his hand sliding warmly behind her neck and pulling her in closer. Valar, could he kiss. It was like he knew exactly how to make the world slip away through the warmth of his mouth moving against hers, the way his hands moved to hold her against him, his caress, his breath, his command over her body. And it certainly did not hurt to hear him confess that he had missed her every bit as much as she had missed him.

Thranduil pulled away first, his blue eyes dark as he regarded her briefly, before turning his attention to the door to the tent.

Galion cleared his throat outside the door. "My lord, I will have the water brought in, if you should wish it.

Thranduil met Narylfiel's eyes, and she nodded.

"Yes, Galion," Thranduil said, reluctantly stepping a polite distance from Narylfiel, who in turn, resumed her attention to removing the king's left shoulder guard.

Galion entered promptly and gestured for the porter to bring in the bucket of water to fill the wash basin. With as an apologetic glance as Narylfiel had ever known to grace the butler's face, Galion hurried the porter along and then turned his attention to his lord. "Do you require my assistance with your armor, King Thranduil?"

"No, that will not be necessary," Thranduil spoke up as his eyes found Narylfiel's.

"And will Queen Narylfiel require any assistance? I can call for Melui if you wish," Galion offered.

Thranduil shook his head. "I will attend the queen," he said quietly with another sidelong glance at his wife beside him. She had just finished removing the second shoulder guard and set it carefully on the table beside the other one.

"Very good, your Majesty," Galion said and bowed. "Now I will not be too far should you require anything."

Thranduil smirked at her after Galion left. "If Galion thinks I am going to let you out of my sight for one second after all the worry you've put me through, he is sadly mistaken."

"It was not exactly my fault, you know," Narylfiel archly corrected him as she reached for the back of his armor.

"It never is," he said, but his tone was hardly serious, and Narylfiel knew he teased her. She made quick work of the loosening the back of his armor and then the joints along the seams on his shoulders, which he had to lean down a bit so she could reach them. Then with her help, Thranduil lifted the chest plate free and carefully removed the back. Underneath, Thranduil wore a thin silk tunic, which looked decidedly worse for the wear post-battle. He untied the laces at the top and then rolled up his sleeves pulled it over his head. But even with all that had happened and no matter how exhausted even he might have been, the Elvenking did not drop his dirty laundry on the floor of the tent. No, he neatly folded it and then placed it in a basket by the door. Really, Narylfiel thought, as she watched him do it, who does that? Who folds their dirty clothes? Answer: King Thranduil does. He would never stoop to littering his floor with dirty garments.

"What?" He caught her staring at him.

Her lips curved up at the sight of him there, messy haired and adorably dirty, neatly attending to his laundry. "Can I help you?" she gestured to the washbasin.

He angled his head and smiled. "I promised Galion I would attend you."

Narylfiel regarded the basin and the leftover water in the bucket. "I don't believe there's enough for us both to wash our hair though," she concluded a

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