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The sun is high in the sky by the time Legolas and his riding party reach the lake. He is stiff and sore as he dismounts and everything he wears is sticking to his heated skin, but the water is beautiful, shimmering in the golden light, and the scents of summer seem to drift around him in a pleasant haze. They have left the forests behind and explored the land at leisure, not searching for or hunting down anything in particular, and he feels almost carefree, a sense of being that does not come to him easily.

Plenty of people would tell him that he worries too much. That there is no war, no disease to trouble his lands. That he has everything a person could want. That he is safe. The trouble is, he thinks, some people just tend towards anxiety, even if they are expert at not showing it. He keeps himself well, and he prefers it that way. These people are his friends, but they do not need to know what troubles his heart when he is alone.

And today is a good day. The weather is beautiful and his horse is happy for the exercise, and Legolas might just strip out of his outer clothes and swim once he has eaten the bread and cheese that is being handed to him with an insistent little nod.

“Thank you, Arlis,” he says.

She smiles and stuffs a chunk of bread into her mouth, already rolling up her sleeves so that she can fiddle with the string of her bow. She is a fine hunter, and had been a great warrior in the old days. He admires her strong arms, eyes catching on the sunburst pattern that marks the skin just above her elbow. Like most soul marks, the lines trail over Arlis’s arm with the appearance of tanned or burned skin, red or pink or brown, like tendrils of ink with flowing edges or crisp lines. He has seen many of them over the years and knows that they vary in size, darkness, and clarity, but there is something about a soul mark that makes it instantly recognisable.

Some people cover them and others wear them with pride. His father has one on the inside of his wrist—a small lily—and he knows that his mother had one just the same. Thranduil has hidden his mark for many years, tending to cover it with a wide silver cuff as though he cannot stand to look at it. Legolas has never asked him about it. He doesn’t want to have a conversation with his father about soul marks, not when he has been hiding his own in silent terror for centuries.

He doesn’t want to talk about it, and he doesn’t want to see the horror on his father’s face when he sees it, and he will demand to see it. And Legolas loves his father very much, but that’s part of the problem. He wants to be a good son, a friend, when he is allowed to be, and he doesn’t know how Thranduil will be able to look at him once he has… seen it.

“Do you like it?” Arlis asks, and he realises that she has finished eating and is now regarding him with amusement. Her eyes flick down to the mark on her arm and then back to him.

“Sorry,” he says quickly, looking away. “I did not mean to stare.”

“Don’t be sorry,” she says. “I think it’s beautiful. Some people dislike the appearance of their marks, though I am sure that the knowledge they have a soulmate takes some of the sting out of it. After all, some people have no mark at all.”

Legolas sighs. “It is beautiful.” He looks over at her partner, a tall horseman with flame red hair and alabaster skin. Even in the heat of summer, he is covered from head to foot in clothing to keep the sun from burning him. “However did you see it on him?”

Arlis laughs. “He saw mine and told me. Apparently, it took him three seasons to pluck up the courage.”

“That is no time in the life of an elf,” says another friend, coming up to sprawl in the grass with them. “I feel sad for people who don’t have a soulmate, don’t you?”

“And have you found yours, Jaira?” Arlis asks, teasing.

“No, but I will.” The younger elf drops back into the long grass and smiles. “And he or she will be beautiful, and wise, and we will make each other happy forever.”

Arlis laughs. Legolas sighs. “I don’t know. Maybe it would be nicer to be able to choose someone for yourself,” he says, and both women stare at him, aghast.

“Legolas, a soul mark is a gift from the Valar,” Arlis says reproachfully. “It is a choice, not a command.”

If it’s a choice, I would rather choose to not have it, he thinks. He touches his face instinctively. Reminds himself that they cannot see it. No one can see it. And of course, he will never find the person with whom he is supposed to share a soul bond, because if they are in any way sane, they will hide their mark, too.

“There is no romance in your heart,” Jaira says, and something about her expression surprises a laugh out of him.

Fuck this, he thinks, and he gets to his feet and starts pulling off his tunic. Before he gets it over his head, he hears frantic hoof beats and turns back towards the forest, already shaking the fabric back into place and reaching for his bow. When the rider calls his name, he lowers his weapon and runs towards them.

“My prince, Galion has sent me. Your father has been taken ill and you need to return to the palace at once,” the messenger says. He clings to his reins, gasping for breath as though he has been riding at pace for some miles without a break.

Legolas grips his bow as something cold seems to grip his heart. “What do you mean, ill?”

“He came out of the forest and collapsed,” the messenger says. “The healer is with him. That is all I know, my lord.”

Legolas remains rooted to the spot for several seconds, mind racing. Then he shakes himself and claps the weary messenger on the shoulder and thanks him, before climbing onto his horse and urging her back towards the palace without a backwards glance. He can hear his friends calling after him but he doesn’t turn around. His father needs him and he hates that he has chosen this day to be so far from home. He feels sick with guilt, with panic, so much so that every movement of his horse underneath him sets his stomach tipping, but he pushes on, urging his poor girl harder than he knows he should.

They fly over the grasslands, through the forest, and he just keeps looking ahead. He is sweating, breathing hard, and his hands ache from gripping the reins too hard, but he won’t stop. He has no idea what is waiting for him, how his father could have been hurt in the forest he knows so well, but he has to get back to him. He has to be there, to help, to… because what if he… Legolas sobs and forces his horse harder, thighs screaming. He can’t die. He wouldn’t fucking dare.

His father cannot die. He’s pretty sure it isn’t possible. Thranduil is far too old and far too stubborn to just let go like that. But still he can’t stop, and by the time the palace is in sight, his chest is burning, partly with exhaustion and partly because he wants to cry and he isn’t going to, he isn’t, he isn’t. Someone comes out to meet him and he hands over his horse without even looking at them. He runs through the palace, and people are looking at him, because no one ever runs in the palace. He is sweaty and dishevelled and he doesn’t care. He just runs faster, and when he runs straight past the guards and into his father’s chambers, two people stop what they are doing to stare at him.

Galion looks up from his seat beside the bed, quill poised over what looks like a letter. Beside him, a healer in blue robes is mixing something in a goblet.

“I did not expect you to get here so quickly, my lord,” Galion says, but his expression is as unruffled as it always is.

Legolas says nothing. He stands in the doorway, breathing hard, and stares at the figure on the bed. His father looks peaceful, but it is a cruel trick. He is not sleeping but unconscious, and his breaths are so soft and shallow that Legolas has to fight the urge to crawl onto the bed and feel for his heartbeat. He holds himself back for as long as he can, but ultimately crumbles and drops to kneel beside the bed.

“Adar, please,” he whispers, fingers tightening in the sheets with the effort of not touching his father’s skin.

He does not like to be touched. Not directly. He flinches away from it, as though burned. He hasn’t always been like that; Legolas remembers a time when his father used to touch his face and smile at him, or thread their fingers together and squeeze them, just for a moment. A flash of reassurance. But he doesn’t like it any more, and Legolas respects that. Respects him. Instead, he gazes down at Thranduil and then at Galion.

“He is so pale,” he says, and Galion puts down his letter.

“We think he was poisoned.”

Something inside Legolas twists in pain. “How?”

“I am working on that,” the healer says, and he wants to get to his feet and shake her.

To ask how she can be working on anything when she is just standing there, but he stays where he is. He has the strangest feeling that his father needs him, and gods, he looks so vulnerable. Someone, probably Galion, has taken off all of his jewellery, and he looks almost small without it. Legolas can see the faded lily on his wrist, all the marks from his rings and bracelets. He has been dressed in pure white night clothes and his pale hair has been brushed neatly. His face is relaxed in something like sleep, and it feels wrong, as though the puzzled little crinkle between his eyebrows has been stolen away, and it makes Legolas ache.

He stirs himself when the healer steps around Galion and pricks Thranduil’s finger with a needle. With practised efficiency, she collects blood drops in a small vial. She is calm, as though it is all fine, as though she is not making him bleed.

“Don’t,” Legolas says, getting to his feet. “He does not like that.”

“I’m sorry?”

“He doesn’t like to be touched,” he says, and he hates the way his voice sounds. His inside anxiety is seeping through to the outside, and he doesn’t know how to stop it. He knows he sounds insane but he needs her to stop.

“I am sorry, my lord. I need some of his blood to find out how he has been poisoned,” she says, and she sounds apologetic. And he is being unreasonable, but the flare of protectiveness inside him is fucking burning. “He will not feel it.”

He nods. Takes a shaky breath. “Continue.”

Galion watches him with interest for a moment or two and then returns to his letter.

“You should send for Elrond,” Legolas says, and Galion looks up.

“I am in the process of doing so, I assure you.”

Deflated, Legolas looks around the room. There are books and bottles and boxes of medicinal herbs scattered everywhere. His mind races, desperate for something to do besides stare at his unconscious father.

“Athelas,” he says suddenly, eyes snapping to the healer. “You should be treating him with athelas.”

“Yes, my lord, he has been given some already, and a party has been sent into the forest to gather more,” she says calmly, corking her vial and holding a cloth against Thranduil’s pale finger.

“Good,” he says, looking around again. Herbs, bottles, his father’s blood. Something else. “Miruvor? He has—”

“Miruvor will be very helpful once the king is conscious,” the healer interrupts, and Legolas thinks there is a trace of irritation in her tone. “Not before.”

“I see. Alright, well… he doesn’t look very comfortable like that. He gets cold,” Legolas says, picking up a blanket and draping it over his father’s motionless form. “Someone should make a fire in here. In fact, I will do it.”

“My lord,” the healer sighs, and this time she definitely sounds annoyed. “It is a warm day. He will overheat.”

“But—”

“Please,” she says, and this time she comes around the bed and rests a hand on Legolas’s arm. “I need you to trust me. I need you to be calm. Can you do that? My lord?”

Legolas sags against her touch. He takes a deep breath. “I need to help him.”

“Then let me help him,” she says, and she smiles. “Why don’t you go and change your clothes and then come and sit with him?”

“Alright,” he says, but he doesn’t leave the room. He is dirty and weary but he needs to be here.

He folds himself onto the floor next to his father’s bed and settles in to watch over him. The healer regards him for a moment and then returns to her work. Galion’s quill resumes its scratching. Slowly, Legolas pulls his breathing under control and all at once it strikes him how much courage it must have taken the woman to stand up to him like that. To take hold of a terrified prince and tell him, in the kindest possible way, to back the fuck off. He smiles.

“What is your name?”

“Viria.”

“Thank you, Viria,” he says, and his grimy fingers press against his father’s white sheets.

“Of course, my lord.”

She continues to move around in his peripheral vision and he lets his eyes drift to Galion, who is bent over his letter, and then back to his father. He is so still, so pale, like he isn’t there at all.

“Is he going to die?” he asks suddenly, and the words come out tight and scratchy.

“Not if I can help it,” Viria says. She sounds calm. He breathes.

“Do you think he was poisoned deliberately?”

Viria steps closer to the bed and gently pulls back one white sleeve. “No. There is a scratch here, you see? I think it was accidental.”

Legolas gazes at the thin red scratch on his father’s forearm. The jagged line is shockingly vivid against the pale skin and it makes him feel sick.

“I agree, Viria, but I will be questioning everyone, just in case,” Galion says.

Legolas looks at his familiar scowl and rather wants to hug him, but he stays where he is, folded up on the floor by the side of the bed. “Everyone?” he asks.

“Indeed.” Galion rolls up his letter and nods to both of them before striding out of the room.

Legolas looks at his fingers. At the way the light spills over his father’s motionless form. At his slow, shallow breathing. The room smells odd; usually Thranduil’s chambers smell softly floral, like the tinctures he uses in his bathwater and fresh, like the scents of his clothes and bedsheets. He has spent enough time in here over the years to know it, to find it comforting, but now the air smells bitter, and it’s just not right. Of course, Viria knows what she is doing. She is using whatever she needs to use to make his father better, but he hates it. He wants to take control back from her, to fling open the windows and light the fire, to gather his silver from the bedside and give it back to him. His beautiful things are his armour. If he’s going to fight this, he needs all of it. Everything.

“Wouldn’t you prefer a chair?” Viria asks, and he startles.

“No, I’m fine here,” he says, even though the floor is hard and he is starting to feel itchy and sticky.

“Of course, my lord,” she says, and then sighs. “Would you perhaps wash your hands if you are going to touch his sheets? I would like to keep his environment as clean as possible.”

He looks at his hands again. His palms are streaked with mud and his nails are filthy. He draws away from Thranduil’s sheets and curls his fingers into shameful fists. “Forgive me. I did not think.”

“I have to take these samples back to my atelier for analysis. Perhaps you could use his bathroom,” she says, and he nods, silently grateful for her understanding. He cannot leave. Not yet.

When she bustles out, he takes one more look at his father and then slips into his private bathroom. He splashes cool water on his face and scrubs at his hands with herbal soap and a stiff brush until the water runs clear, and then he regards himself in his father’s mirror. There are leaf fragments in his hair and his braids are frayed and dishevelled. His skin is pink from where he has caught the sun. His eyes are wild. Terrified. He closes them for a moment and leans on the sink. Opens them again, and, with a shaky breath, lets down the protective magic that hides his shame from the world. It only takes a moment—really it’s just a matter of dissolving a tiny thread of concentration—and he stares at himself in quiet disgust.

When it had appeared for the first time, he’d shut himself away until he had mastered the deception, and he is skilled at it now. Strong emotion can make it flicker, he knows that, but he has kept it hidden for hundreds of years. He is in control, at least on the outside. Most people do not choose to hide their marks, but most people are gifted with pretty patterns or ink-like depictions of flowers. Not this.

This mark is grotesque. It starts at his right eyebrow and carves down his cheek, spreading in raw red and pink across his skin until it trails to a sharp point around his chin. The mark covers almost half of his face and seems seared into his flesh, as though it seeks to cut and burn through the skin until it lays bare the muscle and bone underneath. Every other soul mark he has seen is delicate, sitting on the bearer’s skin like an adornment, but his is raw and angry. Like it wants something from him.

The worst part is what the mark has done to his eye. It carves right down through his eyelid and turns the entire iris from blue to a pale, shimmering pink. He swallows hard and stares at his reflection. He hates it. Hates how large it is, how ugly, how it sees fit to spread over so much of his skin like a disease. People often tell him that he is beautiful, but they do not know what he hides beneath his illusions. No one knows. Not even his father. Especially not his father.

He takes a deep breath. His father needs him right now. With some effort, he conceals the mark and gives himself a moment or two to stare at his unblemished reflection before he returns to the bedroom. His father breathes quietly and he sits in Galion’s vacated chair, watching over him, until Viria returns. He doesn’t know how much time has passed but the sun has set and his limbs feel numb from sitting in the same position for too long. She does not look surprised to see him.

“How does he seem?” she asks.

Legolas shrugs. Twists his hands in his lap. “Much the same.”

“I have managed to identify the poison,” she says, and his heart skips. “Olostar. Otherwise known as the dreaming thorn. It is a common enough plant in our forest.”

“I know what it is,” Legolas says, frowning. “But he would not let himself… he knows better than to touch that plant. He knows the whole forest.”

Viria hesitates, and knows his tone is harsh, but he can’t help it. His father has been wandering that forest for thousands of years. He would never be so careless. He would never… but then he looks at the scratch on Thranduil’s arm and he feels himself sag.

“He has been distracted, my lord,” she says carefully.

“By what?”

“I know not. Galion told me that he has not been himself.”

Legolas sighs. He hates that Galion has told her such a thing, but he cannot deny the truth of it. “I’m sorry. But we can treat it now?”

She nods. “I am brewing a remedy. It will be ready by morning. He should start to improve as soon as it is administered.”

“Thank you,” he whispers, and he lets his head drop into his hands. “What can I do until then?”

“Am I to assume that you aren’t to be persuaded from his side?”

“Yes.”

She smiles. “You could talk to him. Olostar sleep is not well understood. He may be able to hear you.”

The door opens and Galion steps in. Unlike Viria, he is clearly startled to see Legolas sitting by his father’s bed, and he frowns. Wrinkles his nose.

“Perhaps it is time for you to return to your quarters, my lord.”

“I am quite alright here,” Legolas says, making himself more comfortable in his chair.

“It is just… my lord, you are rather… redolent,” he says delicately. “You have spent much time riding today, have you not?”

Legolas stares at him and then looks down at his clothing. He wants to be offended but when he takes a conscious breath, he realises that Galion is right. He is disgusting. He smells like horse and stress sweat and the whole room is heavy with it.

“I… will you sit with him, please?”

“Of course,” Galion says, and he has the grace to look abashed as they switch places.

Viria leans over the bed to rest her hand against the king’s forehead. Legolas flinches. Galion frowns.

“When did he tell you this, my lord?” he asks when she steps out of earshot. “That he does not like to be touched?”

“He hasn’t, in so many words,” Legolas says. “But I know him. He is my father. We are close. I want to respect his wishes.”

Galion gazes at him, eyebrows drawn together in puzzlement. “I see.” He seems to shake himself. “Your friends are asking after you.”

“After me?” he asks, one hand on the doorknob. “I am not the one who has been hurt.”

“Apparently you left them in quite a hurry and they haven’t heard from you since,” Galion says gently.

He nods. Swallows hard. Casts one last look at the bed and then leaves, taking the corridor at a jog. He bathes quickly in water that is a little too hot, taking care to scrub himself completely clean, and then dresses in plain, fresh clothes. Someone has left him a tray of food and he picks at it, knowing that he needs to be strong, even if the last thing he feels like doing is indulging himself.

When he returns, Viria has left for the night and Galion is half asleep in his chair. He leaves without much protest and Legolas takes his seat, letting his eyes adjust to the low light. His father’s silvery hair seems to gleam against his pillow, and his breaths are faint and shallow. He is alive. In the morning, Viria will return and she will bring him back. In the meantime, Legolas will wait. He will be here.

His vigil lasts until the first golden rays of sunlight begin to filter into the room, spilling over the sheets and painting the silent body in the bed with gentle colours. Legolas stretches into the warmth and then folds himself up into the chair, pulling his legs up and resting his chin on his knees, arms wrapped around himself. A soft knock at the glass behind him makes him jump slightly. He turns in his seat, amused to see Jaira peering through the window at him. The morning breeze makes her raven hair skitter around her face and she waves at him, motioning for him to open the window.

“What on earth are you doing?” he whispers. He glances back at his father and on seeing that he is still peaceful, draws in a long breath of fresh air. It smells much better in the room now that he is clean, but the bitter scent of medicine remains, and the atmosphere is dry and stuffy.

“People are saying that the king has been poisoned,” she says, and she peers around him into the room. “Galion is interrogating everyone. You don’t think someone tried to hurt him on purpose?”

“The healer thinks it was an accident,” he says. “Galion is very… thorough.”

His friend gives him a look that says ‘oh, isn’t he just?’ and then bites her lip. “How is he?”

“Sleeping,” he says, because it’s true, and the last thing he wants to do is spread panic. He cares for Jaira very much but she is a terrible gossip, and he knows that anything he tells her will be all over the palace by lunchtime. “We are waiting for news. And a remedy.”

She wraps her cloak around herself. “Does Elrond not come?”

“Yes, but it will take time. Viria is taking care of him.”

Jaira wrinkles her freckled nose. “She is very intimidating.”

Legolas smiles. “My father said that is a good quality in a healer.”

“So he has been awake?”

“No. Not yet.”

She sighs and touches his arm. It occurs to him how infrequently he is touched. Unlike his father, in his case, it is not by design.

“I am sorry, Legolas,” she says. “If it were my father, I would be inconsolable. But you must be strong for him. Thalas.”

“Thank you.”

“You have such a lovely relationship,” she says, smiling. “You clearly care very much for each other.”

Legolas smiles back, trying to ignore the way her words make him feel… odd. The way the skin on the right side of his face seems to warm and tingle. When the door to his father’s chambers opens, Jaira ducks out of sight, and a moment later he sees her running into the trees as though someone is chasing her.

“Good morning, my lord,” Viria says. She regards him quizzically until he closes the window.

“I just thought we might benefit from such fresh air,” he says, and perhaps Jaira is right. She is a little bit intimidating. He is not intimidated, but he also would not like to be on the wrong side of her.

He watches her in silence as she performs a series of checks that are now becoming familiar. When she is satisfied, she produces a vial of golden liquid from her bag and shows it to Legolas.

“This should start to work immediately. It may take a little time for him to regain consciousness, but we should know at once if the poison has been neutralised.”

“Alright,” he says, and she hesitates.

“Do I have your permission to administer it?”

“Of course.”

Legolas watches as she carefully tips the remedy into his father’s mouth, laying her hand over his throat and whispering an incantation with her eyes closed and her head bowed. When she has finished, she steps back, and he gives in to the urge to move closer, perching on the edge of the bed and allowing his fingertips to rest on his father’s sleeve. Thranduil pulls in a deeper breath and Legolas breathes with him. His heart seems to stutter as he waits, body drawn tight. The mark shivers over his skin and he has to resist the urge to reach out and touch his father’s face. His fingers tighten on his father’s arm. He thinks he is holding on too tight, but he cannot let go.

Please breathe. Please come back to me.

Thranduil lets out a soft sigh. Legolas closes his eyes. Opens them again when he realises that he wants to be the first thing his father sees. But Thranduil does not look at him. His face remains soft in sleep, lips slightly parted. He is still so pale, so pale, but Viria is leaning over him and she is smiling.

“That’s better,” she says, and her eyes flick to Legolas. “You are going to bruise his arm, my lord.”

Legolas lets go at once. He sits back, feeling himself flush with embarrassment. “Is it working?”

She listens to his heart and nods. “His pulse and breathing are much improved. Now we just have to wait.”

I need him to wake up, he thinks, but he just nods and thanks her. She fusses around his father’s bed for several more minutes before she excuses herself and leaves them alone. She says he is stable. She keeps using that word. And he is breathing more calmly, more deeply. He looks almost restful. But he is still unconscious, and Legolas is not going to leave this room, because he needs to be there when Thranduil wakes up. He wants to reassure him, to tell him that his trusted friend is on the way to make sure that he recovers properly, that his son will bring him any little thing he needs.

And then to pin him to the bed and take him firmly to task for doing something so fucking stupid. For being so careless in the forest and scaring him half to death. For wandering around in a distracted haze and never telling him why. Of course, he won’t do any of that, and not because he doesn’t actually want to pin his father to the bed.

He wants to stay here, though. He doesn’t want to go back to his chair; it seems too far, suddenly. His instincts are telling him to lean closer, to crawl onto the bed and… and obviously, he is not going to do that. His father does not want to be touched. But he has always trusted his instincts, and they have never steered him wrong. Something is pulling him, tugging at his heart, and he cannot help the way his fingers slide on the bedsheets. He can hear his own heartbeat in his ears, and he wants to slip his hand into his father’s collar and see if the rhythm matches his own. His own face is hot and he touches it, terrified even though there is no one here to see the mark. It is still hidden. He is okay.

His father shivers and he shifts closer on the bed. He lays his hand on his chest, pressing his palm to the cool cotton. It’s not really touching. To his astonishment, his father’s heartbeat seems to strengthen under his fingers. His breathing becomes slower and calmer, and Legolas can feel his body relaxing into the mattress. He can barely stand to watch himself as he places his other hand on his father’s chest beside the first, but he gasps as something warm and flickering flows from the place where they touch and right into his veins. Thranduil still does not move, but his skin flushes slightly, turning from ice white to ivory.

“Am I helping you?” he whispers.

There is no response, but when Viria comes back, Legolas leaps up, folding his arms across his chest. His hands seem to tingle from where he has touched his father’s clothing and he presses them to his own ribs in the hope of persuading the healer that everything is normal. That he hasn’t done anything… strange. She shoots him an odd look but seems delighted with Thranduil’s progress.

“He is improving, just as I hoped. You do not have to watch over him. He will come back to himself when he is ready,” she says at the door, but she clearly doesn’t expect him to listen.

The moment they are alone, Legolas sits on the edge of the bed again.

“Please wake up,” he says, hesitating for a moment and then laying his hand back on his father’s chest. “I love you.”

Thranduil does not stir, but the warm feeling ripples through Legolas’s fingers and all the way up his arm to his chest. He leans closer and suppresses a gasp when the same sensation seems to draw him in, wrapping around him until he can feel it gently tugging at his insides. He has one knee on the bed before he knows what he is doing, and within seconds he is folded up at his father’s side, feet tucked beneath him and face pressed to his warm nightshirt. Thranduil’s breathing is slow and deep, his heartbeat steady against Legolas’s cheek, and he feels himself calming right along with it. His fingers creep into his father’s hair and twist softly into the silky strands.

He has no idea what he is doing but it feels right. His natural magic has always been limited but now it seems to spark into life, swarming over his skin and flowing into his unconscious father, wrapping around both of them and combining with something strong and ancient that surrounds them both in light. He has always known that Thranduil’s magic is powerful, but to experience it this intimately is overwhelming. And yet there is something about it that feels vulnerable, almost broken, and he is terrified.

He is always fucking terrified. Right now, though, he can hold on. He cannot do much for his father but he can do this, and Viria will keep trying, and Elrond will come, and together, they will bring him back.

He stays until he hears Viria in the corridor and then he pulls back. He doesn’t want her to see him… doing whatever he is doing, even if it might be helpful. He avoids her eyes as she bustles around Thranduil and administers various new potions and incantations, and then when she has gone, he creeps back onto the bed. The urge to be near his father only seems to grow stronger each time they touch—always through at least one layer of clothing—and he gives in to it. Before long, he is kicking off his boots and climbing fully onto the bed to lie at his father’s side, finding the best results when they are pressed together from shoulder to ankle with his hands laid over Thranduil’s heart and his face pushed into his hair.

And it is no hardship to do so, to give his father this. He smells wonderful and his body is warm against his son’s. He breathes easily and his skin is returning to its usual colour. Legolas leans up on one elbow and watches him, finding that if he pretends his father is simply sleeping, the whole thing feels rather serene. By the third day, he is getting very good at detecting footsteps in the passageway and retreating to his chair or the end of the bed. Viria says that his father is improving, but he has no intention of telling her what he has been doing. He can’t. He can barely explain it to himself. He just knows that Thranduil needs him, and everything inside him is screaming at him to stay close.

So he does. He sleeps when he can, holds his father protectively in secret for hours, runs back to his own rooms to wash, dress, and eat and then hurries back. Each time, he seems to creep impossibly closer, and when he starts to run his hands up and down his father’s arms and press kisses to his hair, he is quietly petrified, but he doesn’t stop.

He doesn’t know if Thranduil can hear him, but he talks anyway. At first, he tells him anything he can think of. Stupid things. Stories about hunting trips and friends and gossip about the household staff. It doesn’t take long, though, until he starts to confess his worries to the sleeping man beside him. He tells him how he is afraid he won’t wake up. That he doesn’t really want to be a king. That all of this is pointless without him. Without his beloved father. That he knows that people in the palace are asking questions, wanting to know why the king is not better, why he is hiding himself away.

“I should talk to them,” he says, brushing Thranduil’s hair back from his face, taking care not to touch his skin. “I do not know how. But they will look to me. I am sorry that I am not better at this.”

Hearing footsteps outside, Legolas pulls his hand away and throws himself into the chair beside the bed. Galion fixes him with a curious look but then just nods.

“How is he?”

“The same. Galion, could I ask your advice?”

“Of course, my lord,” he says, surprised.

“It has become apparent to me that I should address the household,” he says, hating the way the formality makes him twist his hands in his lap. “People have concerns about my father’s health. And… I am concerned that word of this will spread beyond our borders and there will be rumours that the king is weak… vulnerable… and I—”

“Legolas,” Galion interrupts, and the use of his name startles him. Galion’s expression softens. “It is handled, my lord. I have spoken to the staff and explained that no one is to enter or leave the estate until the king is fully recovered. I am satisfied that no one here has tried to hurt him, but I also wish to be cautious. And, as you say, we do not want anyone to assume he is in any way weak. No one beyond our borders will hear of this, I assure you. And in the meantime, every member of this household has been told that the king is recovering, but will need peace and quiet to do so.”

Legolas stares at him. He swallows hard. Lack of sleep has made him unsteady and emotional and he has to stop himself from getting up and embracing his father’s old friend. He lets out a long breath and glances at Thranduil, immediately wanting to slip out of his chair and take him in his arms again. The compulsion is so strong that it tears at him, and he forces himself to look back at Galion.

“Thank you so much,” he says, finding a smile for the man who has so gracefully assumed the role Legolas has been avoiding. “Thank you for taking care of things so that I may… be here.”

“Sometimes it is more important to be a son than a prince,” Galion says.

Legolas tries to ignore the way his mark prickles. The way his stomach tightens. “I appreciate your help.”

When Galion leaves, Viria arrives, and he finds himself irritated to have to stay in his chair. She keeps trying new things, potions and salves meant to enervate the most stubbornly unconscious patients, but nothing seems to work. But she keeps on trying, and he continues to plaster himself against the sleeping man, to murmur to him and stroke him and then leap away whenever anyone arrives at the door. His nerves are increasingly rattled, his control over his illusion becoming more tenuous with each day that passes and each moment that he spends away from his father.

He bathes and dresses as quickly as he can, but he feels as though something inside him is fraying and deteriorating the longer they spend apart. Usually, he can rush through washing and eating in a matter of minutes, but by the sixth day, his spirit is so weak that his soul mark keeps bleeding through his illusion and he can do nothing but stare at himself in the glass of his own bathroom. He hates it, and he hates himself. The mark seems to darken and intensify, mocking his futile attempts to conceal it. His stomach hurts and he can feel the pull in his chest, the invisible force that draws him back to his father’s bedside, but he cannot go anywhere like this.

He tries again, closing his eyes and taking in a slow, deep breath. He centres himself, imagines a cool, soft veil falling over the skin of his face. Breathes again and then opens his eyes. For a moment, the mark is nowhere to be seen, and then it flickers back over his features, seeming even angrier than before. Legolas lets out a frustrated growl. He presses his fingers to the glass and tries again. And again. And again. Finally, when he has stopped counting his attempts and started bruising his lip with his teeth, the illusion seems to hold. He waits for several minutes, staring into his own eyes until he is certain that the mark is going to stay hidden, and then he takes off for his father’s chambers at a run. He doesn’t know how long it has been, but his whole body is aching and he feels terrible for leaving him alone.

He is flustered and anxious when he opens the door and Viria’s concerned expression just makes his heart drop into his stomach.

“What’s wrong?”

“He has deteriorated,” she says, touching Thranduil’s forehead. Legolas bristles. “Only a little, but he had been making rather good progress.”

Legolas looks at his father. He is paler than before and his breathing is a little more laboured than it had been earlier that morning. He feels his own chest constrict at the sight of it.

“Why?” he asks, even though he thinks he knows. It’s his fault.

“I think his innate magic is failing,” Viria says, and her eyes are fearful.

Just like mine, Legolas thinks, and before he can stop himself, he is climbing onto the bed and wrapping himself tightly around his father. He is on the wrong side and it feels weird and Viria is staring holes into the side of his head, but he feels better immediately and he senses the moment Thranduil’s magic responds to his embrace. He feels him relax, feels his breathing start to deepen, and he smiles with relief, pressing his face into his father’s hair and letting his scent smooth the edges from his fractured nerves.

“What are you doing?” Viria asks quietly.

He doesn’t look at her. His face is burning. “The only thing I know how to do. He seems to draw comfort from this.”

He hears her footsteps draw closer. She leans over him to touch Thranduil, checking his temperature, his breathing, his heartbeat. She lets out a soft breath.

“Valar…” she whispers. “My lord, I need you to step away from him for a moment.”

Legolas lifts his head. “Excuse me?”

Viria continues to stare down at him as though he has done something miraculous. “I had never even considered…” She pauses. and when she speaks again, she is all business. “I need to test a theory. If you could just let him go for a moment and step back… I promise that you can return very soon. Please?”

Everything inside Legolas insists that NO, he will not be letting go of his father, he is helping him, but he knows that he has to trust Viria, and he can hardly embarrass himself any more than he already has. With a genuine feeling of distress, he disentangles himself and backs away from the bed. He stands against the wall, chewing on his bruised lip, and watches them in silence. For a minute or two, nothing happens, and then Viria leans over Thranduil, eyes narrowed. Legolas hears the moment his breathing changes. Sees the subtle whitening of his skin. His stomach clenches and he steps closer to the bed but she holds up a quelling hand and he stops, hands clenched into fists at his side.

“You’re alright,” he says, and he isn’t sure which one of them he is talking to.

Viria holds him back for several agonising minutes, making notes and muttering to herself. At last, she nods and Legolas practically falls onto the bed, no longer caring what any of this looks like. He needs to be close to his father and he needs it now. Slowly, he tangles them together and strokes his hands over warm cotton and soft hair, feeling broken magic reaching out for his with every shared breath. He is so afraid that he thinks he might be sick, but he does not let go.

“This is very unusual,” Viria says, and Legolas opens his mouth to reply but something catches his attention.

The skin on the left side of his father’s face is flickering. For a moment, it seems to hover between dark and light, and then, to Legolas’s horror, an enormous raw scar spreads itself over the skin. It is red and rough, like a burn, and the damage cuts so deeply that he can see the musculature of his father’s face underneath it. He has no idea what could have caused such an injury but he cannot breathe because the shape of it is terrifyingly familiar. It is a shape that he sees in the mirror all the time, starting at the forehead and carving its way along the cheek to wrap right under his father’s lower lip. His left eye is white and cloudy. It looks like it hurts, and the idea that his father is in pain makes him feel nauseated, but he can’t stop thinking about how much it looks like his soul mark, and oh, god, he doesn’t know what is going on but he is definitely holding Thranduil’s arms too tight and he can’t make his fingers fucking unclench.

“What happened to you?” he whispers, fighting so hard to keep his own illusion in place that his head begins to pound.

“Sorry?” Viria says, and Legolas hears her turn from the dresser.

He blinks. The scar has disappeared. And his father’s face looks just like it always does.

“Did you see…?” he begins, and then stops.

“See what, my lord?”

“Nothing.”

Legolas lets his head drop back against his father’s chest. His heart is racing out of control, too. He cannot push the image of that awful, raw scar out of his mind. The way it had cut and ripped, the eye that had been… and he has covered it up. For how long? Longer than Legolas has been covering his soul mark? A mark that looks almost exactly the same as his father’s scar? He doesn’t know what it means and he doesn’t want to. It doesn’t mean anything, because a burn scar is not a soul mark, and Thranduil had clearly never wanted it to be seen. Legolas wishes he hadn’t seen it.

He closes his eyes, wrapping himself tighter around his father. Because he wants to. Because he needs to. Because his magic is failing and he is the only one who can help.

And why is that? asks a little voice inside him, and he drowns it out with a silent scream.

Because I am his son and I love him and I want to help.

Because his mark matches yours, the little voice says.

“Any progress?” Galion asks, sweeping into the room with a tea tray. He stares at the tangle of Legolas and Thranduil. “This is new.”

“It is helping,” Viria says.

Galion sets the tray down and crouches by the bed. Legolas meets his eyes cautiously.

“What happened?”

“I don’t know. This seems to help him,” he says, fingers tightening at his father’s waist.

“No. Something happened. You are ashen, my lord.”

Legolas glances over at Viria, who is stirring her tea with her back to them, and makes a split-second decision. “His face,” he whispers. “I saw it.”

Galion’s eyes flicker with anxiety. When he speaks, his voice is carefully low. “I am sorry. That must have been very distressing.”

“Does it hurt him?”

“He says not, but I suspect he hides his pain,” Galion says.

Legolas has no idea how to process any of this. He fiddles with his father’s cuffs. He looks at Galion just as Viria comes over and stares down at them with a frown.

“Have I missed something?”

“We… erm… were just wondering if there were any more remedies to try?” Legolas says quickly.

She sighs. “It is possible, but I do not have much faith in them. By all measures, my lord, the poison has left his system.”

“Something else ails him, clearly,” Galion says.

“Yes.”

Legolas stares up at her in desperation, wondering if he should just blurt out all the madness about the soul mark and the burn scar and the fact that he can feel his father’s shattered magic in his bones. He thinks he should, knows he should, but the words just won’t come out.

“Please, what is wrong with him?”

“I believe he is fading,” someone says, and all three of them turn around.

Elrond stands in the doorway, wrapped in a dark green travelling cloak. He seems to glow slightly from within, like he always does. Legolas sits up, one hand still wrapped around his father’s wrist.

“How can he be? He is strong!”

“Melda, even the strongest of us can fade,” Elrond says. If he is startled by their closeness he does not show it on his face. He steps into the room and gazes down at Thranduil with a serene expression. “He appears to be otherwise healthy. We may yet call him back.”

“If he is fading, it would explain why he was less careful than usual in the forest,” Viria says, but when Elrond looks at her, she looks at the floor.

“Yes, indeed,” he says. “He is in an altered state. He is not himself.”

“He is always safe in the forest,” Legolas says with a burst of protectiveness. “He is the forest.”

Elrond turns intense eyes to him. Unlike Viria, he stares right into them with as much defiance as he can muster. He isn’t sure why but he feels as though he wants to shield his father from Elrond’s piercing gaze. He feels the swirl of their magic tighten around him and he holds on. Something shifts in Elrond’s expression.

“There is something you are not telling me.”

Legolas sighs. Closes his eyes. “Galion, Viria, could you give us a moment, please?”

They both look startled but they leave the room without a word. Legolas lowers his feet to the floor and shifts along the bed so that he can look at Elrond and still hang onto his father’s arm. He thinks he should probably let go, but he can’t stand it, and when he tries to loosen his grip, his heart twists in pain. Elrond gazes down at him with utter patience. He waits. He is good at waiting. He will wait until Legolas does whatever he is going to do, and if he is going to do it, he has to do it now.

Because he knows that this is important, and because perhaps if he chooses this moment himself, he can convince himself that he has the tiniest bit of control over what happens next. He closes his eyes and dissolves the illusion. Waits. Elrond takes a sharp breath in and Legolas’s eyes fly open. His fine features are drawn into an arrangement Legolas has never seen before: surprise. His fingers flicker at his side as though he wants to reach out and touch the mark.

Legolas swallows hard. Elrond stares at him and he stares back. After what feels like a long time, he moves to the end of the bed and lifts a hand in a silent gesture that Legolas can feel. He can feel the raw power of Elrond’s command and he can feel the shift in his father’s magic. He twists around just as Thranduil’s illusion dissolves and leaves the left side of his face raw and scarred. Legolas looks away, fingers sliding up to his father’s elbow. He turns and stares at the floor. After a moment, he feels the dip of the mattress as Elrond sits beside him. Too ashamed to speak, too afraid to move, he hangs his head and waits.

“How long have you known about this, melda?”

“About my mark or his scar?” he whispers.

“Both.”

“The mark appeared just after I turned one hundred. I first saw my father’s scar this morning.”

“I have never seen a mark quite like that before,” Elrond says, patting Legolas’s arm in a way he suspects is supposed to be comforting.

“No. It’s awful.”

“It is large, and it is striking, but it is not awful,” Elrond says, and there is gentle reproach in his voice. “A soul mark is a gift—”

“—from the Valar, I know.”

“How long has he been fading?”

Legolas shrugs. Trails his fingers absently over his father’s upper arm. Tells Elrond about the olostar and the incident in the forest and the remedies Viria has already tried. And then he takes a deep breath and tells him all the parts he does not want to talk about, like the fact that his father has been distracted for years now, that he has not wanted to be touched, that now, for some reason, being held by Legolas is the only thing that seems to help him. He tells Elrond that he is afraid, that being apart from his father is starting to hurt him, and that he didn’t ask for this, not any of it. By the time he stops talking, he is near tears.

Elrond places his hand over Legolas’s where it lies on his father’s arm. He hesitates for a moment.

“Legolas… soulmates are not always romantic in nature,” he says at last.

He lets out a messy breath. “When did you last hear of one that wasn’t?”

Elrond sighs. “Alright. But this…” He looks over his shoulder at Thranduil. “...is not a soul mark. It is a scar. Your father was injured many centuries before you were born, by dragon fire.”

Legolas shudders. His father’s magic pulses, and for a moment, he feels sharp, hot pain, and then something cool and protective washes over him. He looks at his father, almost surprised to see that he has not moved an inch. The scar flickers for a moment, edges sharpening and then dulling like ink poured into water.

“They are identical, Elrond,” he says, and he gives in to the rising urge to crawl closer to his father.

He inches across the bed and sits cross-legged with his thigh pressing against Thranduil’s hip and both of their hands in his lap. He still wants to help. He still wants to… it feels better this way.

“Actually, they are not,” Elrond says, sharp eyes flicking between their faces. “They are a mirror. His left side and your right.”

“And what does that mean?”

Elrond sighs. “I am not an expert in soul marks, melda. Would you like to speak to someone who is?”

The question surprises a laugh out of him. “Elrond, I would not like to speak to anyone about this. I wish we were not speaking about it right now. Please… just tell me what you know.”

Elrond nods. Clasps his hands in his lap. “Reflected soul marks are incredibly rare. I have never seen them outside of a book.”

“Oh, good,” Legolas whispers, under his breath adding: “Only one of them is a soul mark.”

Elrond ignores him. “They are said to represent the purest form of love. Some call it ‘agape’.”

“Unconditional love,” Legolas says uncertainly. He glances at his father and bites his lip. “I do… I do love him like that. I would do anything for him. But that does not mean I would… that I want...”

“No, but this...” Elrond says, and Legolas looks up when he lifts his hand, almost but not quite touching the mark with his fingertips. “Your iris is almost pink. That, along with the size and intensity of the mark suggests that your potential soul bond is one of deep and enduring passion.”

“With him?” Legolas whispers, and his heart stutters when he glances back at Thranduil.

Deep and enduring passion? He bites his lip. It still hurts. His eyes drift over his father’s supine form, taking in the long lines and sharp features that he has seen every day of his life. Every single day, and yet now here he is, gripping onto his arm for dear life and wishing he wasn’t hurt and wondering if it would be the worst thing in the world if he slid his hand just a few inches and threaded their fingers together. He looks away.

“I do not know,” Elrond says, and Legolas wonders if he is magical enough to read his every thought. He really hopes not. “All of this is conjecture. My best guess. I have never seen anything like this before.”

“I have never known you to guess,” Legolas says bitterly.

“I have never known you to be afraid of your father,” Elrond counters, but his voice is soft.

“I am not afraid of him… I’m… afraid of what this is. Of what I feel,” he mumbles.

“And what do you feel?”

Legolas rubs his face with his free hand. “No. No. Let’s ask another question. How do these marks match if one of them was caused by fire?”

“Dragon fire,” Elrond says, politically ignoring the change of subject. For now. “Dragon fire has its own inherent, powerful magic. Who is to say if he was burned all the way down to his soul?”

Legolas gulps, feeling sick. He leans into his father without thinking and Thranduil’s fractured magic surges around him. He feels as though it is reaching out, reacting to his distress and trying to soothe him. The connection between them seems to grow stronger with every moment of contact, with every bit of himself that he pours into his father and every answering murmur that flows back. The idea that the person he loves most in the world has an injured soul makes him want to weep. And he wants to help, but then he hears the words deep and enduring passion in the back of his mind and he feels warm and confused and like he wants to banish Elrond from the room so he can lie beside his father and just close his eyes until all of this goes away.

In the end, he just whispers, “Please don’t say that” and Elrond murmurs an apology.

“Your father’s injury happened many years before you were born,” he says. “It suggests that your soul is tied to his in some way, but as for the reverse… without knowing the extent of what you are experiencing, it is impossible to know. When your mother passed, his grief may have made him more vulnerable to bonding magic. As I said, I am far from expert in these matters.”

Legolas looks at him at last. “But no one person can have two soul mates.”

Elrond gives him a tiny smile. “Legolas, I think it would serve us well to focus on what we see in front of us rather than what we think we know is true.”

“You really think we are…” he hesitates. Gives up.

“Touch him,” Elrond says.

“What?”

“If you must know, touch his skin. I can see that you have been avoiding it. It need not be much.”

Legolas stares at him and then at his father. His stomach tips unpleasantly.

“He doesn’t like to be touched,” he whispers, but then he thinks of Galion’s puzzlement and of all the times Thranduil has touched him in the past. Affectionate hands on his face and kisses on his forehead and steadying fingers on his wrists as he had learned to ride a horse, to hold a bow and arrow.

Hesitantly, he reaches out and touches the undamaged side of his father’s face with his fingertips. They draw in a sharp breath together, and then Thranduil’s skin flushes and his scar seems to shimmer and pulse. A shock of emotion slams through Legolas’s body and his mind is inundated with images, one after another, blurry and vivid by turns: the forest floor, the sky, the bed beneath them, and then himself, over and over, flashes of his own eyes and the back of his head as he reads and his smile as he mounts his horse and rides off into the woods. The last thing he sees is his father’s face in the mirror, scars and then no scars, eyes bright with pain. Legolas touches his own face, feeling heat so intense that it almost burns his fingers. He thinks he can hear his father’s voice but it is too far away.

“Adar,” he cries and jerks back, bracing himself on his hands.

His heart is racing and everything feels too sharp, but he cannot stop himself from flinging himself onto his father’s chest and pulling him close. He does not touch his skin now, but he can still feel it all over him. He can feel their bond, and he already knows that Elrond is right. This thing, whatever it is, is powerful. Every part of him wants to be closer, more entangled, with his father. He loves him so much. He always has.

But this is wrong. It is so wrong. So why does it feel so intensely right? He shakes himself. It doesn’t matter what it feels like. Thranduil is never going to hear about this. They are going to do whatever they need to do to heal him, and then everything is going to go back to the way it was.

“Málë,” Elrond says with a raised eyebrow. “You appear to have a soul mate.”

Legolas closes his eyes. He breathes in the scent of his father’s nightshirt. “Yes, alright. Thank you.” He sighs and looks at Elrond. “I have kept this hidden from him for a long time. I can keep doing that.”

“That may not be possible. Your touch is healing him, Legolas. It is calling him back.”

He lets out a soft whimper. “You think he is fading because of me, don’t you?”

“I do not know, Legolas. I suspect he is fading because he is trying to deny his bond with you.”

“Do you think he knows?”

Elrond makes a vague gesture with one hand. “It is possible that by accepting it, you can help him to heal.”

“You are asking me to… bond with him?” Legolas asks, attempting to ignore the way his body reacts to that idea.

He can feel the warmth of his father’s skin through his clothes, the gentle stirring of his energy, and his mind is suddenly flooded with exactly what accepting the bond might entail. He doesn’t know the details of the ritual but he does know that they would have to be a lot closer than this, and he is not curious. And nothing is aching inside him at the thought, because this is his father, and they are only lying like this because he needs to be healed… from fading… because of a fucked up soul bond… with his only son.

“Legolas? Are you listening to me?”

“Hmm?”

“I said that no one is asking you to complete a soul bond. I merely need you to accept that the bond exists and open yourself energetically to him so that we might perform a healing ritual. I need you to be his anchor, melda, while we bring him back to us.”

“Oh,” he says, feeling ridiculous. Hot and ridiculous and full of shame. “I think I can do that.”

Elrond touches his shoulder and then withdraws. If he can feel the vibrating energy of the bond, he does not show it on his face. He rarely shows anything on his face, Legolas supposes. After a moment’s contemplation, Elrond takes his leave.

“I will need some time to prepare for the ritual. May I take my usual room?”

“Of course,” Legolas says, and he is halfway to his feet to escort him there when Elrond sweeps himself out of the room and closes the door behind himself.

Suddenly feeling weary, he collapses on the bed and arranges himself so that he is pressed full length against his father. It is beginning to feel almost normal to do so, as though he has always lain with him like this, sharing warmth and energy with careful touches. He trails his fingers up and down Thranduil’s arm and through his hair. Closes his eyes. The bond hums contentedly and he smiles. He is not going to overanalyse this. He is going to do everything Elrond tells him to, they are going to bring his father back, and then he can worry about the rest later. Or not.

He doesn’t need to worry about it. He doesn’t have to think about the fact that he is his father’s soulmate, he just has to bring him back. Bring him home. Make him safe. And that is all he wants, because he… because he has always been devoted. Has always been a little bit besotted with his father, and there is nothing wrong with that, because Thranduil is a staggeringly impressive person. He is the centre of Legolas’s universe. Even after hundreds and hundreds of years, being with him is an experience. The sheer size of his personality is such that he does not even need to be awake to fill the whole room with his presence.

Legolas just wants to hear his voice again. To hear him sigh and complain theatrically about some aspect of palace life that really doesn’t matter, to see him roll his eyes and gaze at him with his head on one side as if to say, ‘are you hearing this, ion-nin? Can you believe that this ridiculous thing is happening to me?’ Legolas smiles to himself and then startles, realising that he has undone two buttons on his father’s tunic without even realising. He fastens them again, almost imagining a little ripple of laughter through the bond.

Undress me, will you? Without my leave? Las-nin, you are a scandal.

And he is imagining it, because his father has never spoken to him in such a flirtatious tone, and yet he can see the warm little half smile that accompanies those words and he is blushing. Again.

“I am going to fix this,” he promises, addressing the sleeping man out loud in an attempt to take control of himself.

There is no response, and he lays his head back on his father’s chest. Soothed by his slow breathing, he relaxes into sleep. When he wakes up, Galion is hovering at the edge of the bed with a tray. Legolas eats and drinks because Elrond tells him he must, keeping one hand resting on his father’s thigh the entire time. The idea of letting go of him even for a moment is insupportable, and anyway, no one tells him to stop. Viria arrives with her bag and fusses around with her checks, and when she is done, Elrond addresses the room.

“Fading is best understood as a faintness in the soul,” he says, looking at each of them in turn. “It is a dissolution of the bond between spirit and body, sometimes caused by extreme old age but more commonly by emotional exhaustion or trauma. Thranduil is extremely powerful and he has faded quite severely, so he will need all four of us to repair the damage.”

Legolas reaches for his father’s hand and then pulls back. His chest hurts and his whole body is pulled tight with fear.

“Trust your instincts, melda,” Elrond says, and slowly, Legolas slides his fingers through Thranduil’s.

The bond surges when their bare skin touches, but this time, his soul mark does not burn him. He lets out a long breath. Elrond continues, explaining that each of them has a different role to play: Viria, the trusted healer, Galion, the faithful seneschal, Legolas, the anchor, while Elrond acts as a conduit for their combined energy as well as his own considerable power.

“I don’t know how to do this,” Legolas says, even as he holds on to his father and wraps his body protectively around him.

“You will,” Elrond says, granting him a serene smile. “Call him back to you and do not stop.”

He takes up a position at the side of the bed, both hands laid on his old friend’s chest. He nods. Legolas looks at Galion, who is kneeling with his hands on the king’s shoulder, and Viria, who leans in from the other side and mirrors him. Feeling overwhelmed, Legolas closes his eyes and imagines that he is somewhere else. That he and his father are somewhere else, sprawling in a meadow in the long grass, sunlight warming their skin. That Thranduil is awake and that his hands come up to stroke through his son’s hair. They used to do that, a long time ago.

You used to love me, he thinks, and the bond turns heavy and painful. You still love me, I know you do. Now come back.

Elrond whispers softly, so close that Legolas can almost feel the words against his skin. He gasps, finding himself surrounded by a wave of magic that feels like warm water. He has witnessed Elrond’s power before, but to be in the midst of it is quite breathtaking. He can feel the light of it through his closed eyelids and he keeps them closed. Somewhere beside him, Galion lets out a soft gasp. The bond seems to flicker in panic and Legolas holds on tight, pressing himself to his father, grasping one hand in a bruising grip and pressing the other to his chest, slipping under cotton and seeking out bare flesh until his palm is flat over Thranduil’s racing heart.

He has no idea what he’s doing but he flies with his instincts and prays that it is good enough. Soon he can feel Viria’s healing magic and something surprisingly fierce that must be Galion, and he lets it all flow through him, making himself heavy and stubborn when he feels the spirit that tangles with his beginning to fight back.

“Come home,” he whispers, and he holds on and holds on and holds on.

“Menno on nin na hon,” Elrond murmurs, “I eliad annen annin. Hon idh radar.”

He repeats the words again and again, louder and louder, and Legolas finds himself repeating them with him, pressing each syllable into his father’s neck and shuddering as the light grows brighter and the air around him seems to shake.

“Hon idh radar,” he whispers, eyes stinging. “May he be found.”

Energy pours into him from all sides, into both of them. Thranduil cries out in pain and his whole body stiffens and jerks against Legolas. Elrond’s magic is burning him now. It is not like warm water, it is like jagged pressure and heat and Legolas cannot breathe.

“Tiutale, Thranduil,” Elrond hisses, and a burst of pure agony makes Legolas scream until his throat is raw, but then there is a hand on his back and a huge, gasping breath, and he looks up, panting.

Relief floods him when he sees that his father’s eyes are open, but they seem fixed on a point behind Legolas. He twists to see his father’s hand shoot out to grab Galion’s wrist. Neither of them seems to be affected by the skin to skin contact; in fact, Galion just smiles and bows his head as though he is deferring to his king under completely normal circumstances.

“Welcome back, my lord,” he says, and he looks rather overcome.

The magic fades around them, ebbing away until there is nothing left but a soft, fuzzy sensation and a very real sense of exhaustion. Viria sighs and allows herself to lean on the bedpost. Elrond gazes down at Thranduil with his usual serenity, but he looks pleased. Legolas stares at Galion’s wrist and then at his father, and all he can think is: why aren’t you looking at me? He is still grasping his father’s hand, and he realises as he pushes that ridiculous thought away that his father his holding his hand right back. He is gripping Legolas’s fingers, and he is turning his head to meet his eyes, and oh, the bond likes that very much. Those eyes, one silver-blue and one cloudy white, are holding his so intensely and he does not know whether the rush of love that accompanies them comes from the bond or from somewhere deep inside him that has never before been allowed to see the light. His heart gives a resounding thump and he smiles.

His father’s scar still looks painful but he doesn’t look away, nor does he try to cover his mark. Legolas presses his hand gently against Thranduil’s chest, laughing softly when he feels his heartbeat accelerate under his fingers.

“Las-nin,” he murmurs, and then both arms come up to fold him into a fierce embrace.

Legolas lets himself be pulled even closer, confused and drained and delighted all at once. Thranduil’s eyes fall closed and he smiles softly. He clings to his son and Legolas clings right back. He knows that the others are watching them, but he doesn’t care. It feels too good. His father’s hands fist into his tunic as though he cannot get quite close enough, and then they are running over his shoulders, through his hair, over his face. Eyes still closed, he presses kisses to Legolas’s knuckles, one hand and then the other, mouth quirking at the corners in a way it hasn’t done in a long time.

“Las-nin,” he whispers, and Legolas shivers. “Gi melin… gi melin… dartha.”

“Of course I will stay,” he whispers back, and then his father is kissing him, drawing him in with fingertips on his face and lingering softly for long enough to make Legolas whimper.

He tastes of bitter potions and his hands shake, but he does not pull away. Something like terror spikes in the pit of his stomach, but he lets his father kiss him because it is helping, and because it feels wonderful. Thranduil’s mouth fits against his and it feels hot and sweet, like someone is pouring liquid gold into his veins, but he doesn’t kiss back because… he can’t remember why he shouldn’t, and he melts against his father just as someone clears their throat and they separate, blinking.

Thranduil’s eyes are hazy as he looks around the room, seeming to remember the other occupants at last.

He smiles lazily. “Oh, look. Everyone is here.”

He does not release Legolas, who just presses his heated face back into its usual place, flat against his father’s chest. The bond flares gently around him as though Thranduil’s hands are still stroking down his back, when in fact they are both idly fiddling with his braids.

“It is good to have you back, meldir,” Elrond says. He sits on the end of the bed with massive dignity. “Please do not do that again. We were all extremely concerned.”

“Forgive me,” Thranduil says, covering a yawn. “My memory is clouded. Was I injured?”

“You were poisoned in the forest, my lord, but I will explain everything later,” Viria says, and she catches the yawn, burying it in her sleeve.

“We have much to discuss, but you must sleep,” Elrond agrees. “So must we all. The ritual consumes an enormous amount of energy. But you are safe now, and you will recover.”

He gets to his feet and bows before leaving the room. Galion leans over Legolas to touch the king’s shoulder and then follows him without a word. Viria lingers, opting to perform one last set of checks. Not one of them mentions the fact that Legolas is still wrapped possessively around his father, nor that their therapeutic closeness seems to have slipped into something more intimate. Legolas doesn’t mention it, either, because his heart is still racing from the kiss and he can feel his father’s weariness, both through the bond and the fingers that are beginning to twitch against his skin.

It feels different now. There is no burn, no shock of electricity. When Thranduil touches him, he feels nothing but contentment. Mostly contentment. Contentment and something else, something warm and intense that he is afraid to acknowledge, but it doesn’t matter, because they are both drifting, and he has nothing left. His father is awake, and he is right here and touching him, and the last words he hears before he sinks into sleep are, “Thank you, Las-nin. I love you.”

His dreams are full of whispered words and golden light and a languorous smile that makes his heart flutter. He wakes feeling warm and content, opting to spend several minutes watching his father sleep. Because he is sleeping now, not unconscious, and nothing else really matters. When Galion pokes his head around the door, Legolas smiles at him, and he only rolls his eyes a little bit when his footsteps cause the king to startle awake. Thranduil touches his face and grimaces. He concentrates for a moment and the scar fades away, leaving only perfect, unblemished skin. Legolas reinstates his own illusion and then frowns when his father turns to stare at him. His face is impassive, but something about the bond feels uncertain. Legolas rests a hand on his father’s shoulder and he glances down at it. Takes a deep breath. Smiles.

“Legolas, would you please bring me some fruit and tea? I sense I have not eaten in a while.”

“I will go, my lord,” Galion offers, but Thranduil dismisses him with a flick of his hand.

“Please, Las-nin?”

“Of course,” Legolas says. Impulsively, he kisses his father on the cheek, then straightens his clothes and heads for the kitchens, already wondering what sorts of treats he can gather to please his father.

He returns within minutes, carrying a tray, and finds Galion standing in front of the chamber door like a sentry.

“What, does he want you to inspect the offering?” he teases, but Galion sighs.

“He told me to stand guard. He… does not wish to see you, my lord.”

Legolas grips the edges of the tray. “What… why?”

“I am sorry.”

“Galion, what is going on?” he demands, attempting to manoeuvre around him but finding his usual dexterity hampered by the loaded tray.

“He thinks it will be better if you spend some time apart,” Galion says, sounding as though he is choosing his words carefully.

Legolas stares at him. He can already feel their half-formed bond pulling at his heart. He needs to be in that room. He needs to be touching his father.

“He needs me,” he says, because he can’t bring himself to say ‘I need him’.

Galion gives him a sympathetic half smile but does not move. “You know I cannot disobey.”

“You can talk some sense into him,” Legolas snaps. Sighs. “I’m sorry. It’s not your fault. Galion… when Elrond comes to explain everything to him… please try to make him see sense. He listens to you.”

“He used to talk to me. He didn’t tell me about this.”

“About me?”

Galion nods. “I felt it,” he whispers, eyes larger than Legolas has ever seen them. “When we brought him back… for a moment, I think we all existed together. A shared consciousness. It is none of my business, my lord, but I do not believe he can ignore this forever.”

Legolas looks at the door again. He hands the tray to Galion and wraps his arms around himself, aching at the memory of his father’s touch. Maybe he is right. Maybe they should spend some time apart. The trouble is, he has no idea what to do with himself.

“Please tell him…” he sighs. “Just tell him I love him, alright?”

“Of course, my lord,” Galion says, and Legolas turns away before he can give in to the urge to peer around him into his father’s bedroom.

He forces himself down the corridor and away from Thranduil, determinedly ignoring the protests from the bond. He hates how stupid he feels; his father has not just sent him away but tricked him. Avoided a confrontation by appealing to his son’s desire to take care of him. Because he imagines there is going to be a fucking confrontation, so he has slipped gracefully out of doing the thing he doesn’t want to do, and how very Thranduil of him it is. And yes, Legolas is furious, but he is also hurt. Thranduil is his soulmate. He doesn’t want to walk away from him. He wants to… he isn’t sure what he wants to do, but when he finds himself standing outside in the pouring rain, he is pretty sure it isn’t this.

He steps back inside and brushes the raindrops from his skin. For a moment, he thinks he might hunt down Jaira and ask to hear the palace gossip mill’s version of events, and then he stops, right in the middle of a corridor. Because this hurts, and more than that, it is not fair. He deserves to discuss this. He is one half of this problem, and if his father thinks he can ‘I am the king’ his way out of it, he is sorely mistaken. There is going to be a conversation, even if it is to agree that nothing more will ever happen between them. Thranduil thinks he can hold him like that and kiss him like that and whisper ‘I love you, Las-nin’ into his hair and expect him to just disappear, does he?

Legolas turns on the spot and walks back to his father’s rooms. This time, Galion is not guarding the door.

His father is sitting up in bed, drinking tea from a delicate cup. He looks exhausted, and for a moment Legolas feels his anger fade, but then his gaze falls on the tray that Galion has placed on the dresser. Hating the way he wants to drop down next to the bed and wrap his arms around his father, he forces his features into a cold stare.

“Enjoying that, are you?” he asks. Thranduil continues to stare straight ahead. “I brought your favourite kind. In fact I made that for you, and you didn’t even have the decency to send me away yourself?”

Thranduil closes his eyes. The bond tugs at Legolas and he feels like he might cry. But he won’t. Instead, he steps closer, pushing back against it until his father smothers a gasp.

“Or maybe you couldn’t?”

“Legolas,” he hisses, part warning and part plea.

“You could not send me away, could you?” he presses, and he takes another step closer to the bed. His father flinches and he feels powerful, but then the feeling lashes back against him and his own need makes his knees buckle. He folds to his knees and grips the edge of the bed. “You can feel that, can’t you?” he demands, shivering as he leans in and presses his fingers to his father’s bare wrist. “I know you can feel it.”

“I feel nothing,” Thranduil grinds out, and Legolas can sense that it costs him to do so, that it costs him even more greatly to yank his arm away.

He reaches out again, this time grabbing a shoulder and wrenching Thranduil around to face him. His eyes are bright, almost teary, and he is breathing hard. They both are. “Talk to me. Please.”

“I do not feel what you want me to feel, Legolas. Please let go of me.”

He is so calm, so dignified, but it is all a mask. Legolas can see his pain, can feel it, and it twists inside him like a blade.

“We are going to talk about this,” he says. “I do not believe that you feel nothing for me.”

Thranduil tries to pull away but Legolas holds on tight. In this moment, he is stronger, and his father’s careful dismissal of him just makes his fury grip hotter and tighter.

“I love you as my son. Nothing more,” Thranduil says, and this time he twists out of Legolas’s grip and leans back on the bed, putting distance between them. “Walk away.”

“Do you think it is that easy?” Legolas demands, and his voice sounds too loud in his own ears.

“I am trying to keep you safe!”

“You are not giving me a choice! You are denying me the right to even discuss this with you. You are being so selfish, adar!” he explodes, and his father stares at him, wide-eyed. In the midst of his ire, Legolas can barely blame him. He doesn’t remember ever shouting at anyone. His father is the one who gets angry and has fits of pique. Legolas is the diplomat; he is the one who calms people down after Thranduil riles them up. He is too anxious to lose control like that. But right now… the bond is roiling and hissing and it hurts him all over. He digs his nails into his palms and stares his father down. “This is not just about you, do you understand that?”

“It has been about me for the last seventy-five years, Legolas,” Thranduil snaps, and then he closes his eyes, but not before Legolas catches the flash of panic.

“What?”

His father opens his eyes. Legolas watches his expression harden.

“I saw your mark,” he whispers, fingers twisting into the bedsheets. “You were sleeping in the sunshine like a cat. I came to wake you and it… flickered. I saw it. And I knew that something was… wrong.” He leans forward, pushing at the bond so hard that Legolas shivers. Drops into a crouch at the bedside. “I have been living with the knowledge that you are tied to me for seventy-five fucking years. Do not tell me about what is easy. You have no right.”

Legolas surges forward, hot with rage. “You knew. All that time.” He kneels on the edge of the bed, heart ripped out in rags. Breath caught in his chest. “That’s why you stopped wanting to touch me.”

Thranduil looks away, and the simple gesture makes tears sting in Legolas’s eyes.

“I thought you just… you could have talked to me. Like an adult. Instead you decided to just… fade out of your life?”

Thranduil seems to fold into himself, wrapping his arms around his knees and letting his hair fall around him, hiding his face.

“I am doing nothing but trying to protect you,” he whispers.

“And you are failing!” Legolas cries.

The bond turns sharp with pain. Legolas can barely hold himself up, but he takes a shaky breath and lets his illusion fade away. “Look at me.”

His father lifts his head as though magically compelled. The energy between them burns so brightly that Legolas has to fight to remain upright. Thranduil’s scar darkens, flickers, and he cries out in pain.

“Don’t. Please.”

“I love you,” Legolas insists, and he has never said those words in anger before. “Adar. I love you. Stop pushing me away.”

Thranduil stares at him, breathing hard. He hangs onto the sheets as though caught in a storm. As though the force of their connection is threatening to blow him away. “Leave me,” he says, and turns away.

Legolas stares at his back for a moment and then stalks from the room. His legs feel unsteady beneath him and he doesn’t get far before he hears his father’s bathroom door creak open.

“I did warn you that would happen,” Galion sighs, and then adds: “My lord.”

Legolas lets out a rough breath and drives himself forward, fighting to put distance between them even though it hurts him to do so. He walks quickly now, and he does not see Elrond until they are colliding with a rough thump.

“Melda…?” Elrond asks gently, but Legolas just lifts both hands in silent refusal and keeps walking.

He knows that Elrond is going to visit Thranduil and he really, really does not want to talk about it. He does not want to think about it, either, but his soul is literally crying out for his cowardly, self-centred father, and it is all he can do to keep moving in the opposite direction. Keep breathing. Because this is not going away, and he can no longer be sure what any of it means. His father knew, and it terrified him. It still terrifies him. And of course he’s afraid, but he’s not sure if he’s afraid of being Thranduil’s soulmate or of the way the reality of that makes him feel.

He wants to smile. And then throw something. And then creep back into that room and… He stops, finding himself in a quiet sitting room. Unsteadily, he folds himself into a chair and presses his hands to his flushed face.

Is it me? Is it you? Was I always like this? Obsessed? Has this bond made me fall in love with you or have I always…?

“You look terrible.”

He jumps and then fights to find a smile for Arlis. She is worried, and he probably does look terrible.

“I can always rely on you to lift my spirits,” he says.

“How long have you had this?” she asks gently, touching her own face.

Something cold slides over his skin as he realises with quiet horror that he has walked away from his father’s rooms without reapplying his illusion. He had not met anyone else on the way here but Arlis is staring at him now, and he feels exposed, even as he settles the concealment back into place. Her expression is one of curiosity, not disgust, and he does not know how to react.

“Long enough. I did not intend to leave it uncovered.”

“Legolas, it is beautiful,” she says, smiling. “I have never seen a soul mark with such intensity.”

He grants her a weak smile. “That is… a bit of a sore point at the moment.”

Arlis frowns. “Are you…?” She seems to master herself. “I will not pry. Jaira said your father was doing better.”

“Yes, although I do not really wish to talk about him, either,” he admits.

Arlis studies him for a moment and then settles back in her chair. She pulls several apples from the pockets of her cloak and offers one to him. He takes it, startled, and watches as she takes a large, satisfied bite. He waits for her to say something, but she just sits there beside him in a gentle, easy silence, and slowly, painfully, he begins to let some of the anxiety out of his body. He closes his eyes, listening to the sounds of crunching and then to his friend’s restful breathing. He cannot be sure how long they sit there, but when she touches his arm and says, “Lord Elrond” he feels as though he has been lost in a daze.

“May I sit?”

“Of course.”

Arlis gathers the rest of her apples and excuses herself from the room. Elrond takes her seat, pulling a sliver of forgotten core out from behind the cushion. He examines it with calm interest.

“Did you explain everything?” Legolas asks quietly.

“Yes, melda.”

“What did he say?” he asks, hating how desperate he sounds.

“Not a great deal,” Elrond says. “He is quiet. Preoccupied.”

Legolas lets out an inelegant snort. “Did he tell you that I shouted at him?”

Elrond smiles. “No. But I am proud of you.”

Legolas lifts an eyebrow. “Are you?”

“He is stubborn. He needs a partner who can stand up to him.”

“A partner?” Legolas repeats, attempting to ignore the sudden tightness in his chest.

“Whatever you decide, Legolas, there will always be a bond between you.” Elrond regards him calmly. “But I think you already know that.”

“He does not want me,” he whispers, eyes fixed on the floor.

He looks up when Elrond touches his shoulder but does not try to stop him when he rises and walks out into the garden. Elrond must be allowed to do what Elrond does, and besides, Legolas is exhausted. The ritual has used up almost everything he had, and the rage has taken the rest. He slumps in his chair, caring little for his posture or the way he must appear to anyone who passes through the sitting room. Torn between guilt for lashing out at his father and the very real desire to slam back into his room and shake him by the shoulders, he sits in suspended animation, emotionally and physically wrung dry like an old cloth.

He is furious at Thranduil, wounded by the betrayal and the secret, yet his still craves his father’s attention so much that it knocks the breath out of him. The bond demands proximity, he understands that, but he does not think that even ancient magic like that can make him miss the way they used to talk. Before Thranduil ever knew about his soul mark, before he built barriers to keep his son out. Away. At a safe distance. Legolas doesn’t feel safe. He feels lost. He is partially bonded to the person he thought he knew best in the world and he feels more separated from him than ever before.

He wants to flip a switch and turn all of this off. He wants to run this feeling through a straining cloth and separate it out into parts that make sense, into the bond, and everything else. To know for sure which parts of this are the cries of a soulmate and which are just a person who loves his father a little bit too much. But he can’t do that, and he can’t sit here any longer because the distance is starting to hurt. With a sense of inevitability, he rises and lets himself walk back in the direction of his father’s chambers.

No one is standing guard, but he stops a little way from the door anyway. He breathes, feeling the tightness in his chest slip free, and he wonders if the man on the other side of the door can feel him there. If his father sleeps a little easier now that he is close. Legolas wonders if he is tired, too. If he is staring right back at the closed door with weary eyes, wishing things could be different.

“I know you can feel this, adar,” he whispers, and he leans against the wall, eyes closing.

He feels himself sag, allows the weight of his body to merge into the hard stone, and when he begins to slide, he lets it happen. Every bit of him is raw and heavy, and the floor seems to come up to meet him, offering support for his exhausted spirit. He crumples against the wall, knees pulled up and head resting awkwardly on his forearms. The last thing he remembers before he slips into sleep is a warm flicker of magic creeping over his skin.

“What on earth are you doing?”

Legolas jumps, wincing when his stiff limbs cry out in protest at the movement. He blinks and tips his head back slowly, already knowing who is standing over him. He can fucking feel Thranduil all over his skin, and the sight of his anguished grey-blue eyes makes Legolas’s heart beat out of rhythm. He looks better. He is dressed in his usual fine robes, black and silver, and all of his jewellery is back in place. There are dark smudges under his eyes, but his scar is hidden once more and he looks almost like himself. No doubt Viria has treated him with miruvor and done her best to restore his energies, and Legolas realises that right now, he is the one who looks half dead, and his father is gazing down at him with a completely unreadable expression.

Irritated, Legolas pushes at the bond and is gratified to hear his father gasp, to see him colour slightly. The steadiness in his eyes wavers and he stares down at his son, chest rising and falling rapidly under those stark black robes. Legolas smiles, equally breathless, and tips his head back against the wall, holding onto the eye contact even though he feels pulled so far out of control that he has lost all sense of himself. He is sitting on the cold floor and he is staring up at his father and he wants, he wants, he wants.

“Las-nin,” Thranduil whispers, and he is leaning down and grasping Legolas by his upper arms, pulling him to his feet, and gods, he is so strong.

The bond rushes around them but Legolas can barely sense it. They are just inches apart now and his father is holding onto him so tightly, and his eyes are dark and soft. He smells like himself again, and Legolas cannot resist the urge to lean in closer, to press his forehead against his father’s and breathe him in deep, and when he does, Thranduil lets out a quiet groan that skates over their lips and then they are kissing, and it is perfect. Lost in the heat of his father’s mouth, his scent, the warmth of his hands, Legolas surges forward and is immediately pressed back against the wall. His body responds instantly, opening up to his father and submitting to him without question.

This is not a kiss borne of confusion or the simple joy of being alive; this is deliberate and heated and every fibre of his being is crying out for it. He had no idea he could feel like this, like every second they are connected he seems to melt into his father, into the bond, and their magic only drives the feeling higher until all he can ever remembering knowing is those hands, that mouth, the way Thranduil pins him to the stone wall with his entire weight and licks into his mouth as though he is claiming him.

“Adar,” he whispers, gasping when strong fingers grasp at his hair and his lower lip is caught in teeth that nip and tug until he whimpers, and he kisses back with ferocity because he wants this, he needs it, and…

“Forgive me.” His father pulls back, holding him by the shoulders. His face is flushed and his eyes are too bright, and the bond turns hot and spiky between them.

“What for?”

Thranduil closes his eyes, releases him, and walks quickly down the corridor, leaving Legolas alone, confused, and harder than he has ever been in his life. He watches his father walk away, all shining hair and swishing cloak, and when he turns out of sight, he lets out a raw growl and kicks out at the wall opposite. When the pain surges in, he leans back against the stone and presses his hands to his face. He can taste his father on his tongue, and he is petrified and furious and thrilled. The magic of the bond seems to ripple around his ankles, painting him with Thranduil’s leaking emotions. Regret and horror float to the top but underneath them, dark and simmering, is desire. And something else that he cannot yet pick apart, but that settles over him like a warm cloak and keeps him company all the way back to his rooms.

He does not sleep. He does not even try. Instead, he lies flat on his back and stares at his ceiling, allowing their shared magic to flow around him. If this is only the first step of a soul bond, he cannot imagine the intensity of a completed connection, but he lets the thought drift around in his mind. He has never before felt that he was only one half of something, as though there was someone out there who could complete him, but he feels as though something enormous has shifted inside him. He is aware of his father at all times; he doesn’t need to know where he is or to see him, he can just… feel it. Feel him.

And, of course, he is everywhere. Now that he is well enough to roam around the palace again, Legolas seems to run into him at every turn. It isn’t as though he is trying to run into his father, even though the thought of that kiss leaves him flushed and distracted wherever he goes, but he seems to lurk around every corner. He is in the rose garden when Legolas decides that some fresh air would do him good; he is in the library when Legolas tries to find a book to occupy his mind; he is in the kitchen when Legolas goes looking for tea and cake, and his father is never in the kitchen.

It is as though the bond is drawing them together, startling them with surprise meetings, and every time, Legolas stumbles over his words and Thranduil stares at him and then at his hands, and one of them withdraws from the situation, and the bond roils and fusses and seems to sulk in defeat. When Legolas finds himself standing outside his father’s bedroom window, he curses loudly and turns to walk away, but their shared magic strokes itself down the back of his neck and the caress feels so like his father’s hands that he sways on the spot, pinned there until desperate blue eyes meet his through the glass.

Aching all over, he whispers his father’s name. Watches him smile slowly, and then grit his teeth. He turns away, and Legolas watches helplessly as he gestures and speaks to someone out of sight. The window is slightly open and his father’s voice drifts out into the misty morning.

“He cannot keep doing this.”

Elrond’s voice. A deep sigh. “Thranduil, you are hurting him. You could kill him.”

“I am saving him,” Thranduil hisses, and Legolas turns away.

His eyes sting as he walks back through the palace, and he almost lets the tears fall. Almost. He isn’t at all surprised to see Elrond standing outside his rooms, nor is he surprised when he follows him inside without a word. Legolas offers him a chair and sits opposite. He is far too tired to have another conversation with a man who mostly talks in riddles, but he doubts he has much choice in the matter.

“His obstinacy will be the ruin of him,” Elrond says. “Please know that I tell him this often.”

Legolas huffs and looks at his hands. For a moment, he sees longer, more delicate fingers. Silver and gems. He shakes himself. “Did he tell you what happened?”

“If you are referring to the incident in the corridor… not in any detail, I assure you,” Elrond says. “He has many explanations… many justifications. If he were to apply such a level of elaborate intricacy to his diplomatic affairs, I dare say he could take control of Middle Earth.”

Legolas laughs. It hurts, but gods, he loves his stupid father. At least… he thinks he does. He sighs.

“This soul bond… I need to know. I fear that my feelings are not my own. I feel… Elrond, do I feel what I feel because of the bond? At first, I felt comforted to think that I could not help feeling this way about him, that my emotions were being controlled by the bond, but now…” Legolas swallows hard and forces himself to look at Elrond. “Do you understand what I am asking?”

Elrond tilts his head on one side. “Legolas, a soul bond cannot create emotions. It cannot force you to feel anything. The bond may intensify feelings of connection, and it may allow two people to share emotions in a way they previously could not, but it can only work with what is already in your heart.” He smiles softly and lays a calming hand on Legolas’s arm. “This magic cannot create feelings of love or desire, only bring them to light.”

Legolas stares at him, barely breathing. “So, I…?” he trails off, and Elrond nods.

“The soul bond is, in essence, an offer. It can help a person to find their true mate but it cannot compel them.”

Legolas closes his eyes, partly because they are stinging again and partly because he cannot look at Elrond. His heart is full to overflowing and he has never been so afraid or so relieved. His feelings are his own, whatever they are, and that knowledge seems to settle something deep inside him. He laughs, covering his face.

“So I really do love him this way?” he asks through his fingers.

“I do not think you need me to tell you that, melda.”

“Humour me,” he mumbles. “Please.”

If I am going to admit to myself that I am madly in love with my own father, I am going to do it with the help of the wisest man in the universe, and then I am going to… I am going to...

“Do you find yourself preoccupied with thoughts of him?” Elrond asks. “Do you wish to be close to him in ways you have never been before? Do you care about him more than you do yourself?”

“Yes,” Legolas whispers, dropping his hands into his lap.

Elrond grants him a wry smile. “I would tell you that he feels the same way, but it is not for me to share things an old friend has told me in confidence,” he says, and his eyes fix on Legolas, burning into him.

His heart speeds. Yes. The bond wraps around him and squeezes until he shivers. He touches his face, feeling the mark heating under his fingers as though kissed by fire.

“… even though it is not a true soul bond?”

Elrond’s smile is maddeningly enigmatic. “The marks may be unusual, melda, but the bond is real. Your relationship with Thranduil has always been special. He never stops talking about you when he visits me, did you know that?”

“No.”

“Your connection has always run deep. It might seem strange to consider him in a romantic light, but—”

“It does not,” he admits, looking away. “In fact, I cannot seem to stop considering him that way.”

“And that frightens you,” Elrond says.

Legolas stares at him. “He is my father.”

“And you are in love with him.”

It is not a question, and he feels hot all over. “Yes.”

“And he is your soulmate.”

“Apparently.”

“Melda, all of these things can be true of one person. You and your father are entangled in many ways. Your bond is unique and profound. Your connection pulls you towards one another with a ferocity I have not before witnessed in all my years. I would not presume to tell you how to proceed, but I am certain of one thing—if you carry this bond to completion, you will be creating something of quite staggering power and beauty.”

“So, you approve,” Legolas says, mouth tugging into a smile.

“I care for you both a great deal, and I would very much like to see you happy.”

For a moment, they gaze at each other in understanding, and then something dulls and aches around Legolas’s spine, gripping him and pulling him down with such force that he almost slides out of his chair. Thranduil is unhappy… no, he is distressed. His anguish is bitter in Legolas’s mouth and it makes him feel heavy inside. Elrond might well approve, but Legolas’s father does not. He wants him, but he does not want to want him. He wants to push him away, to avoid his eyes, to ignore the way they long for each other.

He wants to save his son, but Legolas does not want to be saved. He wants to be bonded. He wants to belong to the man with the warm hands and the warmer kisses. He wants to be allowed to thread his fingers through starlight hair and sit in his father’s lap in the rose garden. To be his. He wants to throw every last bit of his energy into their half-formed bond and overwhelm Thranduil with love. Elrond says nothing when he gets up and walks out of the room, so he just keeps walking.

I love you, he sends, letting his feet lead him back to his father’s chambers. Please stop fighting. I don’t need you to keep me safe. I need you to let me in.

He feels the backlash almost immediately. The walls slam up and a surge of magical energy explodes out to repel him, but he pushes on. He will not let go. He cannot. With a slow, deep breath, he opens the door. His father is standing at the window with his back to him. He does not turn around when Legolas enters but his shoulders tense and his hands seem to flicker at his sides. Legolas breathes in and out slowly, taking a moment to centre himself and, because he can’t help it, to admire his father. He is wearing soft blue and grey, and something twists inside Legolas when he realises that he has dressed himself in almost exactly the same colours. Thranduil’s summer crown catches the light and scatters it over leaves and berries and tiny flowers that seem to trail and wind into his hair.

I am not here to stare at you, Legolas tells himself, but he cannot help it.

“I know why you are here,” Thranduil says. He does not turn around.

“So you can feel me?” Legolas challenges.

His father sighs. Turns slowly with his hands behind his back. His expression is closed, his scars hidden away behind their perfect illusion.

“Legolas, you must resist this. I know you are strong enough.”

He laughs in disbelief. “Am I? Are you?” he demands, moving closer to his father and revelling in the way the proximity affects him.

Thranduil holds his ground but his hands shake and he drops his eyes to the floor. “I have to be.”

“Please, adar,” Legolas whispers, stopping just inches away. He pours his heart into the bond and watches as his father struggles against it, breath coming in rapid gasps. “Just tell me… tell me how you could have kept this hidden from me for so many years.”

“I have told you. I was trying to keep you safe,” Thranduil says quietly.

Legolas groans. He is so tired of those words. He is so tired of this feeling. He wants to close the last bit of distance between them and kiss his father until every last bit of his stubborn resistance crumbles into dust. Until they are clinging to each other and crying with relief. But Thranduil is so brittle, so guarded, and all he can do is stand there and push back, hold on as tightly as he can.

“You were trying so hard to keep me safe that it almost killed you,” he says, and Thranduil’s eyes flash with a warning, but he presses on. “You were fading. You were so disconnected from yourself that you nearly died in the forest. You made yourself vulnerable. Why?”

Thranduil looks away. “My feelings made me vulnerable,” he says, and his voice is so soft that it seems to catch at Legolas’s chest.

“How?”

His father gazes at him, expression pained. “You do not need me to say it.”

“Maybe I do,” Legolas says, because the bond is warming and softening around him and it feels so good, so right, and he needs to know. He has the right to know.

Thranduil meets his eyes for a moment longer and then stares at the ground. “My feelings for you make me weak, Legolas. They have done so for many years. I did not need to know about your mark to know that what I felt for you was more than… correct. I have tried so hard to keep this from you,” he says, and Legolas stares at him, hope rushing in his veins.

“You have loved me for longer than you have known about this?” he asks, lifting a hand and taking down his illusion.

“Yes.”

“But you pushed me away,” he says, taking another step closer. “You did not want to touch me any more.”

Thranduil stares at his hands. “Please do not think that I do not want to touch you,” he laughs bitterly. “I want to touch you more than you could ever imagine.”

Skin heated all over from the pulse of the bond and his father’s admission, Legolas grabs his hand. “Then touch me,” he whispers. “Please.”

Silver-blue eyes meet his, holding for long, agonising seconds, and then Thranduil is reaching for him, wrapping both hands around his waist and pulling him in close. They gasp together, lips brushing in a moment of pure, dazzling joy, and then his father is pushing him away with an agonised growl. His scar flashes, his eyes burn. Magic flares around him, shoving Legolas back until he stumbles, and the bond threads itself through his father’s power until he can barely breathe with the pain.

Instinctively, he raises an arm to protect himself, but the pressure does not stop until his back is pressed against the chamber door. Furious, he braces himself and fights back with everything he has.

“I will not let this ruin you,” Thranduil says, panting with the effort of holding him back.

“I am not ruined, adar,” Legolas says. “I am in love with you. I accept that.”

“I do not accept that. This is not what I want for you.”

“This?” Legolas cries, gesturing at the space between them. The wild scent of ancient magic. “No, this is not what I want either. I want to be with you. What exactly are you trying to save me from?”

“A lifetime of being tied to this,” Thranduil snaps, and his tone drips with self-loathing.

It doesn’t suit him, and Legolas wants to launch himself across the room and do anything he can to drain it away. He wants to draw the poison out of his father and bring back the person who always made him feel safe, no matter what. The person who has showered him with love for most of his life. His ada. His Thranduil. Even in his misery, he is still beautiful, even with every inch of that shocking scar exposed. Legolas rubs at his stinging eyes. Lets out a shuddering breath.

“And what if… gods help me, you are such a nightmare sometimes… but what if that is what I want? Does it matter what I want?”

“You do not know what you want. The bond is corrupting your mind.”

“A soul bond is an offer, not a command,” Legolas says softly. Everyone has told him that. Arlis. Elrond. People he trusts. “It cannot make you feel anything you don’t already feel. It is a choice.”

“Then choose someone else,” Thranduil says, and the words seem to lodge in Legolas’s chest.

“I cannot,” he says, eyes stinging. “I only want you.”

His father makes a soft sound of distress and the bond rushes around Legolas, whispering words of pain as those eyes burn into him. Thranduil’s mouth stays pressed into a firm line, but Legolas can hear him, can hear the tremble in his voice through their connection:

Please… this is… I want… please… stop… my boy… Las-nin… please, please, please...

“I can feel you,” Legolas whispers, finally stepping away from the door. “If it’s so wrong, why does it feel like this? Adar, I love you. I am choosing you.”

“Please stop making this harder.”

Legolas pushes himself forward. Holds out a hand. I know you want me. I can feel it. Please stop fighting.

“Look at me, Thranduil,” he says, forcing his voice steady. “Look at me and tell me you do not want this.”

His father lifts his head slowly. “I do not love you. I do not want you.”

The bond withdraws, turning cold. Legolas stares at his father, at his blank expression, his imperious posture, and he staggers, feeling as though his legs have been taken out from under him. All the breath rushes out of his body and everything left inside him seems to crumple in pain.

I do not love you. I do not want you.

With a massive effort, he nods and turns away. He will not let his father see the devastation on his face. He cannot think beyond the need to get away from those eyes, those words, but he forces himself upright as he walks away. He has his pride, perhaps not much of it, and he will hold on for as long as he can, but he cannot stop the tears that streak his face as he walks back to his chambers. People are looking and he doesn’t care; he just keeps moving, and when he reaches the doors of his rooms, he all but falls through them. Somehow, he makes it to his bed, where he sits on the edge with his head in his hands.

He can still feel the bond, and for the first time since it took hold of him, he wishes it would just go away. It feels wrong now, all tangled and snarled, and it tastes like poison on the back of his tongue. He can still feel his father in there, but he is so mired in darkness that Legolas could not reach him if he wanted to. Sobbing, he presses his hand to the right side of his face. His skin is hot and wet with tears, and as he covers his dreadful mark and wishes it away, the flesh on the opposite side seems to burn and ache, pain trailing down from his forehead and carving around his cheekbone, his lips, his chin. He cries out, scrubbing at his face as though doing so will drive the whisper of his father’s soul from his body.

His father does not want him. He would rather endure this than tie himself to his son. And Legolas hates himself, because he still fucking loves him. He still wants to walk back into that room, pull his father down onto the bed and make all of this dissolve into light and connection. Because he thinks he knows how good it would feel, and he isn’t afraid any more. He wants it so much, and gods, everything hurts. He shudders and lets the tears spill into his hands until he is sniffling and gasping and his heart is raw.

Someone knocks at the door. He does not even look up. When they knock again, he lifts his head and glares. At the third knock, a little more insistent, he gathers himself and tells the interloper—probably Elrond—to (please) leave him alone. The fourth knock is firm enough to startle him, and the fifth seems to shake the doors on their hinges. Slowly, he gets to his feet, still taking short, shivery breaths. Something warm, something fearful, licks around the base of his spine. He crosses the room and pulls the handle with shaking fingers.

His father stares at him, wrecked and breathless. His eyes are bright with terror and he seems to stare directly into Legolas with an intensity that nearly makes him stumble all over again. He lifts a shaking hand and then drops it again, and the bond courses out from him, catching Legolas up in warmth. His heart lifts along with it but he resists, stepping back and holding onto the door until his fingers hurt.

“What do you want, Thranduil?” he asks, though in reality he barely gets out the ‘what’ before his father is pushing him back into the room and sinking to his knees.

He grasps at his son’s clothes and stares up at him. “Forgive me,” he pleads.

“What for?” Legolas whispers, even though his tears are still stinging on his cheeks and his father’s eyes are so full of love and he is so afraid to hope.

“For saying those things,” Thranduil whispers back, fingers still gripping at his tunic. “For pushing you away. For denying you. For keeping secrets. Las-nin, I tried to protect you but you are right, I have been selfish. I have been so afraid of this and you have been… I cannot fight this any more. I do not want to.”

Legolas lets out a rough sound, somewhere between a laugh and a sob, and then, wrapping himself in the brand new warmth of the bond, he drops down to the floor and flings his arms around his father.

Relief, relief, relief, so intense inside him that it almost hurts.

“It is a choice, adar, and I want you to choose me,” he says, murmuring the words into soft, silver-white hair. “I want you to love me.”

Thranduil sags against him, hands coming up to clutch at his back. “I do love you. More than anything in the world.”

“I love you,” Legolas says, pulling back to rest his forehead against his father’s. He breathes him in, smiling when cool hands drift up to frame his face. “And I forgive you.”

“Do… do you still want me?” Thranduil asks, and the uncertainty in his voice is mirrored in the soft little prickle of the bond. “After the way I have behaved?”

Legolas laughs and kisses the corner of his mouth. “Gods, yes.”

“I think I will be a challenging partner.”

Legolas smiles. He likes that word. “Do you forget how long I have known you? I would expect nothing less. And I am choosing you,” he says, and they both gasp when their mirrored marks flush and spark as one.

Thranduil rests one hand against his son’s heated cheek. “May I kiss you?”

“Now you are asking permission?” Legolas laughs, and then stops when his father’s expression turns stricken. Sending gentle warmth into the bond, he rests his fingertips on Thranduil’s face, letting them trace the edges of his scar. “Yes,” he whispers. “Yes, please kiss me, adar.”

There is a flicker of anxiety, a caught breath, and then his father kisses him, taking his mouth with astonishing care as though afraid he might break. When Legolas gasps softly at the sensation, Thranduil groans and surges against him, urging him open with strong hands pushed into his hair. He yields easily, kissing back in desperation and swaying on his knees as he tries to drag his father closer, harder, wanting more of his mouth, his tongue, his love.

“I am so sorry, ion-nin,” Thranduil gasps against his lips and he shakes his head.

“Please don’t apologise any more. Just stay with me.”

“I will never leave you again,” he says, and he presses kisses to Legolas’s forehead, his nose, his tingling mark. “I heard you crying. I felt it. It broke my heart.”

Legolas shivers, feeling the dried tears pulling his skin tight, then smiles when his father kisses them and then kisses him, licking hot and salty-sweet into his mouth.

“I will not make you cry again,” Thranduil says, kissing him long and slow until hot desire begins to pool in the pit of his stomach.

He pulls back to stare into those eyes and finds them soft and fierce and a little too bright.

“Thranduil,” he murmurs, and with an unsteady breath, he throws himself wide open.

He lets the bond take him, and he feels the moment his father does the same. He is operating purely on instinct and it feels absolutely overwhelming. Their connection is a deluge, a warm rainstorm, and Legolas can feel the crackle of thunder and lightning all the way down to his bones as they fall together, kissing and clinging as their shared magic roars around them. His father’s magic is so powerful and he just wants to drown in it, but he is held so tight, so close, and he is not afraid. When he loses his balance, he whimpers, but he looks into Thranduil’s eyes and sees every last thing he is feeling reflected right back to him.

He laughs with delight, so intensely happy to have his father back after all these years, without the walls and the secrets and the fear, and there is something new, too, something wild that exists only for him. When his father’s tears fall, he kisses them away. Tiny white flowers fall from Thranduil’s crown and seem to rain down around them. They both stare and then laugh; the bond is singing inside them and Legolas doesn’t want to wait another moment.

“Adar,” he whispers, getting to his feet and holding out his hands to his father.

Thranduil gazes up at him with massive dignity and then lowers his head in a gesture of pure devotion that makes Legolas’s heart flutter. This man is a king, and he is kneeling, bowing to him. He is lifting the ornate crown from his head, radiating love through the bond, and Legolas covers his hands with his own without a conscious thought. Together, they remove the crown, and Thranduil meets his eyes, scar deepening to a rich wine red. He smiles, and Legolas feels so intensely worshipped that he can do nothing but smile back at his soulmate. His father gets to his feet and tips his head back into a kiss, in an instant taking back the control that Legolas so badly wants to give him.

He is beautiful, with or without scars, and Legolas wants him. He pulls him across the room by the hand, finding himself caught up in a hard kiss the moment his back hits the sheets. He kisses back, pulling his father on top of him and groaning with approval when he settles between his drawn-up thighs, hair spilling everywhere as their mouths meet over and over, tongues hot and bright with the taste of tears.

“You are dressed like me,” Thranduil laughs, fingers slipping under his waistband.

“Perhaps you are dressed like me,” Legolas counters, but then his father is touching him, stroking him, and he is too hard and desperate to do anything but push shamelessly into his hand. “Oh… I love you.”

His father nips at his neck, amused. “Yes, ion-nin, I believe you do. Why don’t you show me?”

“Mm?”

“Show me how to love you,” he says, and the words hit Legolas hard, slamming into his spine and wrapping around his cock.

He grabs his father by the hair and looks straight into his eyes, one cloudy and one piercing, and floods the bond with pure longing. Those eyes darken instantly, and he pushes harder, sending image after image of everything he wants his father to do to him, every bit of that soft, pale skin that he wants to touch. He smiles breathlessly up at the man now holding him hard to the bed and thinks of a hot mouth on his cock, slow, wet kisses down the length of his spine, the way he wants to arch and writhe as Thranduil pushes into him again and again.

He stares up into his father’s eyes, delighting in his rough little breaths. Trust yourself. Trust me. Believe.

“Las-nin,” he murmurs, and in that moment, Legolas can see everything.

His smile, his helpless arousal, his fear. He is exhausted, strung out with the ordeal of the last few days, but he is also open, and Legolas is on fire for him. He thinks perhaps he should still be angry but there is already so much remorse and pain pulling at the bond and gods, he has been suffering for so long. Legolas just wants to love him. He leans up for a kiss, long and insistent.

“Thranduil-nin,” he whispers, and his father laughs. Shakes his head.

“You truly want this? You truly want… me?”

Legolas trails his fingers over the scar, down over his father’s eyelid, which flutters closed under his touch.

“My soul wants you. My heart wants you. All of me wants you.”

Thranduil stares at him and mirrors the touch, cool fingertips lighting up his soul mark in a feather-light caress. “You wish to be mine?”

“Yes,” he says firmly, lifting his hips into his father’s hand, turning his face into his stroking fingers. “I would be yours. Yes, I want you. Gi melin, Thranduil. Anuir. Forever.”

His father’s smile is devastatingly vulnerable. Legolas wants to taste it.

“I want nothing more than to complete this bond with you, Legolas, but I do not wish to rush you, especially after the way I have behaved,” he says, and he goes to withdraw his hands from his son’s clothing. “I can wait as long as you need.”

“Thranduil,” Legolas whispers, catching his hands and pressing them hard against his body. “Ada,” he adds, finding that both of these addresses seem to make his father shiver. The bond hums between them with raw delight. “Please do not make me wait. I want this so much.”

His father nods. Bites his lip. Slips graceful fingers around his son’s hard cock and strokes him slowly. Legolas melts into the bed, tangled in relief and desire.

“It does not bother you that I have made this bond before?” Thranduil asks, sitting back to pull gently at Legolas’s waistband with a look of intense concentration on his face. “It is… highly unusual.”

“No,” Legolas laughs. He gasps when the air rushes against his heated flesh. “Our bond is unique.”

“This is forever,” Thranduil says, a little smile pulling at one corner of his mouth.

“It already is,” Legolas says, and he has never been more certain of anything in his life.

His father stares at him, glittering fingers stroking over him in a calm rhythm that is not fooling Legolas one little bit. He can feel the shudder of the bond, the way that years of feelings, impossibly deep, are overflowing inside this man, and when he flashes I love you and dips his head to close his hot mouth over Legolas’s cock, every last thread of imperfect devotion is laid bare before him.

Mine—ours—this—always. How long I have loved you. Fëa-nin.

“Fëa-nin,” he repeats, and Thranduil’s eyes flick to his as he takes him deep. “Fëa-nin.”

My soul.

Legolas sprawls, letting the bond rush around him as he stares down at the incredible sight of his cock sliding in and out of his father’s mouth. His father’s. His soulmate’s. It feels fucking incredible and Thranduil never looks away from him. He holds his son down gently, drawing back to let him leak and twitch on his tongue before taking him slow and deep. His own arousal brushes Legolas’s thigh, hot through layers of linen and silk, and every time he lowers his head, Legolas is hit by an aching wave of desire through the bond. It steals his breath, and he grasps at his bedsheets, already so close, and just as he is about to let go, his father draws back, gripping him firmly in one hand. Legolas groans in protest.

“Forgive me… I have wanted to do that for a very long time… a very long time,” he says, flushing lightly. “But we cannot complete the bond this way.”

“You just… wanted to?” Legolas huffs, frustrated but delighted.

“Yes. I never thought I would touch you like this.”

“If you let me take my clothes off, you can touch me however you like, fëa-nin.”

Thranduil leans forward and kisses him. “Fëa nárë,” he murmurs against his lips, and then he is releasing him and slipping his fingers under his own robes, his tunic, his trousers, revealing inch after inch of perfect, pale skin.

Legolas stares, mouth dry, and when his father finally stretches out beside him, wearing nothing but his jewels and a secret little smile, the bond flares and all the lamps in the room burn fiercely for several seconds.

“Thank you,” Thranduil says, clearly amused.

Legolas flushes, but he lifts his arms eagerly when strong hands reach out to remove his tunic, and before long he is naked and his father’s hands are all over him, pressing along the curve of his ribs and skating up and down his legs until he shivers.

He is so warm and heavy with longing that he just holds on, arching up for kisses and abandoning himself to this feeling, to the bond, and to whatever his father wants to do to him. He can hear Thranduil’s voice in the back of his mind but it is clouded with desire and he almost loses his mind when a hot mouth brushes against his ear and whispers, “I want to be inside you.”

“Yes,” he hisses, feeling his neglected cock leak against his stomach at the very thought. “Yes.”

Thranduil’s smile turns the bond hot and silver-white. He presses one large hand against Legolas’s erection and smiles even more brightly at his answering shudder.

“Do you have…?” he begins, and Legolas cannot quite believe his own blush.

“In the box, just there,” he gestures, biting his lip as his father leans to retrieve the hidden bottle of oil.

He makes such an impressive figure, all shifting muscles and rapt attention, and Legolas is so distracted by the thought that all of this is his that he almost doesn’t notice those clever fingers guiding his legs apart and when Thranduil touches him, he gasps and clutches at the sheets.

“Fëa nárë,” he says, easing a slicked finger into his son and filling the air with the scent of sweet almond. “Do you know what that means?”

“No,” Legolas whispers, already wanting more. “Please.”

“It means soul flame,” Thranduil explains, staring at his fingers as he adds a second and pushes, stretches, making Legolas cry out. It stings. He wants more. He wants everything. But his father is no hurry; he looks up and meets his eyes, clearly delighted with the way Legolas is already falling to pieces. “It is not the kind of endearment one would use in company. It is… intimate.”

His eyes are bright with intensity and his fingers are stroking, twisting inside Legolas and he thinks he must be going insane, because he can feel his father’s fingers, his rings, his gentle hand reaching out to brush the hair from his face, but he can also feel his own tight heat, and there is a deep, raw longing that does not seem to belong to him.

I can feel what you feel, he whispers into the bond, and his father smiles. Leans down to kiss him. Slides in another finger and works him open and desperate, all the while managing to look so uncertain that Legolas can do nothing but cling to him and whisper words of encouragement.

“Please, fëa-nin… yes… I want you so much, please, I’m ready.”

Thranduil pushes his fingers slowly inside him one, two, three more times, flooding the bond with his own pleasure until Legolas is panting and arching up against him, desperate to be taken. He can feel the quiet terror, the centuries of longing, all surging around him in a chaotic wave.

“Please,” he whispers again, and then his father is slipping his fingers free and filling him completely.

“I hope you know, ion-nin, that I am yours,” he says, leaning forward on his hands as they take a shaky breath together. So hot. So deep. So good. “And you will have me as often as you like, after this.”

“Good to know,” Legolas murmurs, drawing his knees up and pulling his father down for a messy kiss. “Let’s do this.”

Thranduil smiles and rolls his hips, pulling a loud groan from both of them. Then he does it again, and again, and Legolas has to let his eyes close. He can feel everything, everything, pressure and fullness and hot, gripping friction. He can feel his father’s slow, deep strokes inside him, but he can also feel every beat of Thranduil’s heart in rhythm with his own, the little whispers that pour out and feather against his face, and the litany of yes, yes, yes, ion-nin, that pours through the bond, mixing with his own whimpers and the steady leak of his cock against his belly and the way neither of them seems to quite believe that this is really happening.

He is fucking and being fucked at the same time, crying out with overstimulation as he finally looks up at his father and watches his mouth fall open and his eyes grow dark.

“Adar,” he whispers, and his voice seems to echo around them, weaving itself into the endless loop of pleasure that reverberates between them with every shift of their hips.

It’s too much, too intense, but the sensation of relief is so fucking deep that he never wants to let it go. Overwhelmed, he clings to his father, touching his scar with trembling fingers. He gasps at the lightning-flash of emotion that crackles over his skin: fear—desire—love. He sees himself, in the forest, sleeping in the sunshine like a cat, opening his chamber door with tears staining his face. Thranduil buries his face in his neck and fucks him harder, and when the tears start again, he pulls back a little and touches them with his fingers.

“Don’t stop,” Legolas pleads, grasping at his father’s back and pulling him in harder.

He thinks Thranduil’s next words will be ‘don’t cry’ but instead, he presses his lips to Legolas’s wet face and says, “It’s alright, Las-nin. I love you.”

And then he is picking up the pace, brushing breathless kisses as he thrusts into his son, fitting his hand against the once-hated soul mark and caressing it as though it is something beautiful, and maybe it is. They are shattered, scarred, marked, but they fit together just like this. Legolas lets his tears fall and mirrors the gesture, fingers pressing to his father’s scar as they move together. It flickers in and out under his palm, both eyes flashing cloudy white and then sharp blue-grey. He holds on, focusing on the way Thranduil fits so perfectly inside him, the way every push and shudder pulls the bond tighter, the way his father leans down so close that his son’s cock rubs between them, hard and leaking and desperate.

“You are beautiful,” Thranduil whispers, and when the pad of his thumb slips onto Legolas’s bottom lip, he lets his tongue dart out to touch it.

And oh, the spark of heat through the bond is so delicious that Legolas urges those fingers into his mouth, letting his teeth drag against silver and jewels and salty skin. His father stutters in his stroke for a moment and Legolas laughs delightedly, slipping his tongue over sharp knuckles and revelling in the taste of him. He has always loved his father’s hands and now they are all over him, in his mouth and gripping him by the thigh to fuck him impossibly deeper, and the rough little sound that punches out of Thranduil is almost enough to make him come on the spot, but he knows he has to wait. That they have to finish together.

“Adar… Thranduil… I’m close,” he pants, breath coming in gasps now.

“Are you ready?” his father asks, and he slows his strokes, leaning down close and letting his hair fall around them like a curtain.

Legolas nods, still pushing back against every shift of his father’s hips. They are both shaking, but the bond holds them steady, looping their love and desire around them as they gaze into each other’s eyes. Thranduil wraps a firm hand around Legolas’s twitching cock and slides the other into his hair.

“Yes,” he says firmly, and wraps his legs around his father’s back.

Thranduil kisses him. Pushes into him slowly. Legolas holds his breath. He knows the words. Everybody knows the words. But he thinks he wants to hear his father say them first.

First, our union of love. My beloved, I choose to love you. I am yours. Heart, body, and spirit. I surrender. My heart tells me your name.

“Minya erthadmë-min. Izrê-nin. Ni cil-meladh. Nányë tyenya. Enda, hröa, fëa. Var-ni. Órenya quetë nin ennethel,” Thranduil murmurs, picking up the pace of his strokes. One hand starting to slide over his son’s cock and the other pressing to his soul mark. “Legolas.”

Legolas whimpers, pulls his father close and breathes the words against his ear, holding him in place with his palm against the flickering scar: “Minya erthadmë-min. Izrê-nin. Ni cil-meladh. Nányë tyenya. Enda, hröa, fëa. Var-ni. Órenya quetë nin ennethel… Thranduil.”

The bond explodes with shimmering heat and they both cry out in a shock of pain and pleasure. Everything feels hot and tight and the feeling of his father inside him is just too intense, too fucking good, and he can hear Thranduil’s voice in the back of his head urging him to let go, fëa-nin, so he obeys. With a strangled cry, he comes hot and hard between their bodies, feeling the instant his father falls and spills inside him. The sound he makes is so uninhibited that it draws a second, softer shudder from Legolas that seems to ricochet between them until they are both groaning and shivering.

“I love you,” Thranduil whispers against his neck, sticky fingers still wrapped around his son’s overstimulated cock.

“Fëa nárë,” Legolas mumbles, and he tries to wrap his arms around his father but everything suddenly feels very weak. “Is this…?” he tries, but his father has become heavy on top of him and he can feel the world beginning to fade away.

He closes his eyes.

He stirs awake to find something warm and solid draped across his body, soft pale hair in his face and the mingled scents of sex and magic all around him. In the moment before he opens his eyes, his mind is flooded with sense memories that draw his heart and stomach tight.

His father. The bond. Thranduil pushing slowly inside him and whispering fëa nárë, I love you, my heart tells me your name—Legolas.

“We completed the bond,” he murmurs, lifting his hand to stroke through his father’s hair.

He is relieved to find that his body obeys him this time. His muscles feel wrung out, drained somehow, but there is also the most delightful feeling of calm settling inside him. The bond feels soft, like golden light, and while the pull of it is less urgent than before, he can still sense Thranduil all around him, can feel the moment he starts to rise to the surface; Legolas is already smiling when his father lifts his head and blinks at him.

Thranduil shifts, leaning up on one elbow, and Legolas lets out a soft sound of surprise. The movement is minute, but it is enough to make his father slip out of him with a trickle of sticky release. He grimaces until he sees his son’s smile, and then his whole face softens in delight.

His face. Legolas reaches out to touch the scar, heart racing. “Your scar,” he says quietly.

“Your mark,” Thranduil echoes. “Las-nin…”

He grabs Legolas by the wrist and pulls him out of bed, ignoring his protests and the very real fact that his legs feel like rubber underneath him. Still, he lets himself be propelled into his bathroom, where he stands beside his father and gazes at their reflection. There is plenty to look at—kiss-grazed lips and scratches on skin and the beautiful, gentle contrast of his sun-tanned skin against his father’s flawless ivory—but he cannot take his eyes away from their mirrored marks.

His soul mark still takes up most of the right side of his face, but it has faded from angry red and pink to a soft golden shade that reminds him of tea made in sunlight. It is rather beautiful, and it is still the perfect reflection of his soulmate’s scar, though that, too, has been changed by their bond. Thranduil touches his face in disbelief. The ragged edges and exposed flesh have been soothed away, leaving a fresh pink mark that traces around his temples, cheekbone and chin. His left eye still doesn’t quite match his right, but it is clearer, brighter, and a pretty pearlescent blue, while Legolas’s right eye seems to shimmer in a soft shade of violet.

“You healed it,” he mumbles, and when he turns to Legolas, he realises that they are holding hands.

“We did,” Legolas corrects, staring back into the mirror and openly admiring the picture they make together.

They are two halves of the same whole. Mirrored soulmates. Father and son. He likes the way the matching edges mark them boldly as bonded; he feels possessive and proud, and his fingers tighten around Thranduil’s.

“You are mine, ion-nin,” he says, and when he pulls Legolas into a fierce embrace, the bond flickers around them like a contented little campfire.

It feels different now, calmer and more intense all at once. Legolas breathes against his father’s neck, sweat and sweet almond and magic.

“I am, and I want everyone to see it.”

Thranduil’s soft laughter lights up the bond. Legolas thinks he wants him to laugh all the time, and he wonders just how he might make that happen. If he’s honest, seeing him smile is enough. He presses kisses to his skin and lets his awed contentment bleed through their connection.

My father is my soulmate. We are bonded. He is ridiculous and difficult and possibly a little bit insane, but he is beautiful and he is mine.

Thranduil laughs again, and holds him impossibly tighter. Legolas leans against him as a wave of exhaustion crawls through his body.

“How long did we sleep?” he mumbles.

“I could not say,” his father admits, and they both glance down as his stomach rumbles. “We should eat. But first…” He releases Legolas to pull the lever that fills the bathtub.

Legolas gasps sharply at the loss of contact as a startling blend of pain and longing pulls him tight. Thranduil whips around, steam hissing behind him, and his expression is one of pure distress. Quickly, they reach for each other, pressing close until the pain fades and the bond begins to hum with satisfaction.

“I should have warned you,” his father says, sliding gentle palms down his back. “We will need to remain close for a while longer.”

Legolas wants to laugh. “Oh, no,” he whispers into his father’s hair. “However will we manage?”

Thranduil lets out an inelegant snort. Legolas hides his smile. “Perhaps getting clean would be a start?”

He makes a non-committal sound but allows his father to draw him over to the bathtub, never once letting go of his hand as he takes charge of his son’s soaps and cleansing tinctures, adding sloshes of whatever he feels like with the air of an apothecary mixing a healing brew. An apothecary who is naked and sweaty and cannot seem to stop looking over his shoulder as though to check that Legolas is still there. He squeezes his father’s hand and holds on tight. They take care not to lose contact again, even as they step into the warm water and cleanse one another’s skin with gentle, reverent touches.

His father gasps when he pours fragrant water over his hair and down his back, and Legolas can feel the sting of the long scratches he put there himself.

“Sorry,” he whispers, but Thranduil just smiles and runs a soapy hand down over his chest, his abdomen, his thighs, and it is all he can do to hold onto his control; he is hopelessly aroused but his legs are shaky beneath him and he has the feeling that one touch of those hands in the right place will send him sprawling face first into the water.

Thranduil rolls his eyes but he holds him gently by the waist and kisses him instead, and he doesn’t stop until they are climbing unsteadily out of the bath and clinging to each other, dripping and steaming.

“Much better,” he murmurs, and something sharp and giddy seizes Legolas, making him laugh and leap at his father, who catches him in strong arms and laughs when Legolas wraps his legs around him and holds on. “And what now?”

“Whatever your heart desires, fëa nárë,” Legolas says, sending a flurry of suggestions that makes Thranduil laugh again as he carries him back to the bed.

They fall onto the rumpled sheets still holding each other, and Legolas slides his hands down his father’s damp back, grasping at the firm flesh until Thranduil takes his mouth with a hot little breath and eases back inside him; he’s still so open, so wet, but it’s still a stretch and the sore sting feels so fucking good.

“Yes, adar,” he pants, and a deep feeling of contentment rushes through his body as his father makes love to him with slow, hard strokes, kissing him over and over until they are a mess of tangled limbs and whispered words of love, and Legolas is losing himself over long, cool fingers and holding on, urging Thranduil into him and pleading, ‘fëa-nin, come inside me, please, please, please…’ His father shudders above him and spills hotly so deep inside him that he closes his eyes in bliss and wraps his arms and legs around him to hold him in place.

Thranduil lets out a messy breath and relaxes, letting himself be held. “I waited so long,” he murmurs, mouth pressed to his son’s chest. “You were worth it.”

“Oh? And how long did you wait?”

Thranduil lifts his head, one sharp eye and one pearlescent one regarding him through a curtain of wet hair.

“Hundreds. Of. Years,” he says. “I have loved you and I have been beyond terrified that you would look at me one day and you would know. And I needn’t have worried, ion-nin, because we share the same madness, do we not?”

“It is not madness,” Legolas says, deciding not to think too hard about the hundreds of years. The thought makes him feel a little bit unsteady, and something in the bond tells him that pressing the issue will only make his father sad. And apologetic. “It is love,” he says instead.

“When you have lived as long as I have, you will find that love and madness often occupy the same space.”

“Yes, well, I…” Legolas pauses. He squints at something just over his father’s shoulder. “What is that?”

With a theatrical sigh, Thranduil turns, pulling himself free and flopping onto the bed next to his son.

“I have no idea what you are talking about.”

“That tray,” Legolas says, sitting up slowly. “That was not there before.”

There is a disinterested sigh, and gentle fingers trail over his chest. He shivers, but he pulls himself upright and he is halfway across the room before the pain catches up with him and drops him to his knees with a breathless cry.

I forgot, I forgot, I’m sorry, he whispers silently, crumbling almost all the way to the floor when he feels his father’s spike of distress through the bond. Within seconds, Thranduil is at his side, gathering him into his arms and breathing with him until the horrible sick feeling starts to wash away.

“Was it like this… the first time?” he asks, pressing his face into his father’s neck and letting his heartbeat soothe away the last of the ache.

“No,” Thranduil says, and Legolas hates that the admission makes him feel pleased.

But he can’t help it. He already knows this bond is special, that the magic drawing them together is powerful. It is already demanding so much of them, but the moment he touches his father, all of his fear and anxiety seems to twist and coalesce and dissolve into warm light. He feels as though he is breathing for the first time, here on the floor of his chambers with strong arms around him and his own scent all over his father’s skin. Mine, he thinks, and the bond ripples with delight. You are mine.

With one arm still wrapped possessively around him, his father leans across to the table and manages to manoeuvre the tray down to the floor.

“Perhaps Galion…” he mutters, but Legolas shakes his head.

“I can smell violets. Viria.”

Thranduil groans. “Please do not tell me she came in here while we were… entangled.”

Legolas looks at the flask, the two cups, and the neatly written note. “My lords,” he reads, shuffling closer again and resting the note against his father’s bare chest. “Please forgive me for the intrusion, but you had not been seen for a day and a night, and as the king is my patient, I felt it necessary to perform an examination. Let it be known that Lord Elrond advised me quite strongly against doing so. I performed a standard array of checks and found you both to be in good health, albeit energetically drained.

This is quite to be expected after a bonding ritual. Please do not be alarmed to find yourselves weakened, exhausted, or confused. There will be a brief energy surge on first waking, after which you will likely experience some difficulty in maintaining distance from one another. Again, this is normal, and will lessen in time. The magic of the soul bond requires time and physical closeness to develop correctly.

Please drink this elixir (for strength) and eat as much as you can. I have provided some fruit and nuts and Galion will provide something more substantial as soon as he knows you are awake. (He is very concerned that the food will spoil if left out for too long.)

I will return.

Viria.”

Thranduil pokes at the bowl of fruit in mute distress. “I cannot.”

Legolas snorts. She did not need to see them all spread out like that. She did not need to see his father sprawled on top of him… inside him. She probably did not want to see their clothes strewn everywhere, or the open bottle of oil on the beside. But she is a healer. She has almost certainly seen worse.

“Perhaps we should… avoid thinking about it,” he says at last.

Thranduil gives him a rather withering look and then leads him back to the bed, tray gripped in his free hand. He pours the elixir and they both drink. It tastes bitter, but Legolas stuffs several pieces of dried fruit into his mouth before he is being pulled back against his father’s chest and held there, while dextrous fingers wind into his hair and gently comb out the knots. It takes him a moment to realise that his father is taking out his braids, and he falls very still as Thranduil begins to twist the strands into a new shape.

No one has touched his hair like this since he was a child, and no one has ever done it with such calm intimacy, as though there is no greater honour. He feels his father’s affection through the bond, through the protective press of his thighs against Legolas’s, the steady beat of his heart and the achingly careful flickers of his fingers. Legolas does not have to look in the mirror to know that these braids are different, and he thinks that if he asked, Thranduil would tell him what they meant. But he doesn’t ask. He just revels in the touch, eyes closed and hands on his father’s knees, until there is a kiss to his cheek and he is being pulled down, down into strong arms, down under soft sheets, and down into sleep.

He stretches awake to find the room in near-darkness. Thranduil is idly eating hazelnuts, one arm cradling Legolas protectively against his chest. The lamplight softens his sharp features as Legolas gazes up at him in quiet adoration. He knows that his father knows he is awake—the flicker of the bond is impossible to miss—but Thranduil simply smiles and eats another hazelnut. Legolas watches his mouth. His father eats another hazelnut and stares into the middle distance. He trails his fingers along one of his son’s collarbones, lingers in the hollow of his throat, and then continues, letting the ghost of a smirk play along the bond when the action makes Legolas gasp out loud.

Beautiful, he hears, and then again as those fingers trace all the way back. Beautiful.

Legolas follows the path of his fingers. He has never given much thought to this part of his body before, but he can feel his father’s admiration; it flows around him and grips at his thighs until they ache. Grasping for control as all the blood in his body seems to rush down, down, down, he flashes his own message back, lashing Thranduil with images of his hands, his eyes, his strong arms and his astonishing mouth. The next hazelnut stops halfway to that mouth and Legolas grins.

“Is that so?” he asks, eyes finally dropping to meet his son’s.

“Yes, and so much more.” He reaches up, steals the hazelnut and crunches it before capturing his father’s mouth in a kiss. “Will I still be able to feel you like this when the bond has settled?”

“I certainly hope so.”

Legolas sighs. “Will I still be able to sense your thoughts?” he clarifies, delighting in the filthy expression on his father’s face. The hand that slides down his body and presses tight. “Reprobate.”

“I cannot say,” Thranduil admits. “But I suspect little will change now. We will, eventually, be able to spend time apart, but any other effects really depend on the potency of the bond.”

Legolas hums and rests his head on his father’s chest. “We feel stronger now. Viria’s elixir worked.”

“Yes,” Thranduil says, helpfully sharing a hazy picture of the two of them sprawled and joined on the bed, just as she must have found them. He softly pokes a piece of dried fig into Legolas’s mouth. “Eat.”

Amused, he obeys, chewing the fruit and closing his eyes to accept whatever his father wants to feed him. It’s strangely calming; the mild surprise of each sweet or salty fragment, the taste of his father’s fingertips, the feeling of silent submission that comes with being fed and intimately stroked at the same time. He wonders if Thranduil has ever fed him before. It doesn’t matter. A cranberry. A walnut. A light thumb over the head of his cock. Slippery. Hard. A raisin. A soft kiss.

“Oh,” he whispers, and then someone knocks at the door. “Ignore it.”

“My lord, Viria says you might be awake by now. May I bring you something to eat?”

Galion.

Thranduil withdraws his stroking hand and pulls the sheets around them a little more tightly. Legolas groans but smiles to himself when he is drawn in closer, one protective hand wrapping around his bare shoulder.

“Come, Galion,” he calls, as though these are his rooms.

“Thank the Valar,” Galion sighs, striding through the door with a laden tray. He glances at them and his surprise shows on his face for a fraction of a second, and then he is approaching the bed and edging things aside so that he can place a small mountain of food on the bedside table. “How are you feeling?”

“We are well, meldir, a little delicate,” Thranduil says.

Legolas can only look at him. He feels intensely vulnerable curled into his father’s arms with only a thin sheet covering his naked body, and he can see the way Galion’s curious eyes flick over their reflected marks. Legolas wonders how many strange things he has seen in all his years at the king’s side, and how startling this must be to actually register on his carefully neutral face.

“This is quite a change,” Galion says, and then he smiles. It’s a small smile, but it is there, and the bond tells Legolas that his father is secretly delighted to see it. He gazes down at them warmly for a moment and then pulls a notebook out of his pocket. “I have cancelled the cherry blossom ball; I have rescheduled your visit to Imladris for next season in the hope that you will be fit to travel by that time; the staff have been informed that you—both of you—are currently indisposed, and, of course, are asking the most ridiculous questions… ah, and Lord Umbar is already on his way, so I am afraid we will have to… deal with him.”

Thranduil blinks. His fingers tap against Legolas’s shoulder. “I see.”

“What would we do without you, Galion?” Legolas murmurs, because he can hear it inside his head.

“Perhaps starve?” he suggests, and Legolas can feel his father’s suppressed laughter underneath him. “I would be delighted, my lords, if you would eat everything on this tray before sunrise, when I will bring another.” Galion grants each of them a deferent bow and then turns to leave, pausing to regard Legolas with another little smile. “Your braids are very beautiful. Congratulations.”

He slips away, and Legolas turns to look at his father.

“Lord Umbar is insufferable,” Thranduil says, glaring at another hazelnut and then biting into it.

“Is there something… significant about my braids?” he asks, suddenly desperate to look at them in the mirror but entirely reluctant to leave the warmth of the bed.

They feel different under his fingers, finer and more elaborate than the simple style he has worn for years. The fact that his father put them there is enough to fill his chest with warmth, but something about Galion’s expression suggests that there is more to it than that. Thranduil regards him in silence for a moment, and when he touches Legolas’s hair the bond shimmers and aches.

“I do not expect you to wear them out of this room if you do not wish to, fëa-nin,” he says, voice soft enough to send a shiver down Legolas’s spine. “They are bond braids. It is an antiquated tradition, but I could not resist.”

His father looks almost embarrassed, all at once extremely interested in his own hands, but Legolas laughs and flings himself into his arms, holding on and pressing his mouth to his skin until Thranduil smiles and drags him up into a breathless kiss.

“I will wear them, adar,” he promises, climbing into his father’s lap. “I will wear them every day of my life.”

The bond explodes with happiness and Legolas swims in the sensation, falling into every kiss and barely hearing his father’s words, mumbled against his lips, but when he does, he just kisses him harder:

“I can show you how to do mine, if you like.”

When they finally collapse against each other, sticky and exhausted, Legolas winds his father’s hair around his fingers in an openly claiming gesture, and Thranduil just smiles. He reaches over to Galion’s tray and picks up bread and cheese, offering Legolas bites of what might just be the best thing he has ever tasted. He is fairly certain that the bread is the kind they have every day at the dinner table, but it just sings with savoury flavour and softness, and the cheese is exactly the right amounts of sharp and tangy. For a long time, he just drifts, eating whatever he is given and letting the world turn hazy around him, but when he feels his father’s eyes on him, he sits up and draws out a long section of hair, letting it run through his fingers in quiet reverence.

He follows the directions of soft words, guiding hands, and the steadying caress of the bond, weaving strands in and out until the braids are complete. They are not as neat as the ones made by Thranduil’s hands, but that’s alright, because those are his bond braids in his father’s hair, and he is smiling, and his new, softer mark is flushed pink, and they belong to each other.

For long seconds, they stare at each other, and then someone laughs in the corridor and they both turn to look at the door, equally astonished to realise that life, in all its chaos and banality, is still going on without them. Beyond these walls, there is a structure, a time. Legolas cannot quite remember how that feels. Here, in this room, where he needs nothing but to be touching his soulmate, time does not seem to exist. He is caught in a dream, and it feels wonderful. Thranduil reaches for him, and he gives himself up to it.

They manage to eat most of the food before Galion returns, and he only looks a little exasperated as he swaps out the almost-empty tray for a new one. He looks as though he is about to say something, and then he notices Thranduil’s braids and merely withdraws with a little smile. The new food is thoroughly investigated before being rapidly forgotten when Legolas eats a strawberry a little too slowly and finds himself on his back with honey-sweet fingers curled into his mouth.

By the time the sun is at its highest point, they have repeated this pattern three more times, and he is sated and pleasantly sore. But more than that, he is learning. They are learning each other, and every discovery lights a brand new spark inside him. He is beginning to understand exactly how much he affects his father, and what kinds of touches, what kinds of words make him flush or shiver. Legolas throws himself open to the bond again and again, letting instinct guide him. He thrills in seeking out sensitive spots on his father’s skin—his hands, his ankles, his neck—and in the realisation of how much he likes to hear his name on his son’s lips.

Thranduil. Adar. Fëa-nin.

He lights up the bond when Legolas tells him he is beautiful, which he does over and over again, because his father is beautiful, and his smile makes him even more so. He flickers astonished pleasure when Legolas touches the marked side of his face with as much reverence as the flawless side, littering the skin with kisses and gentle strokes.

Thranduil likes having his nipples bitten and his hair pulled. He likes to be held tight and kissed firmly. The first time Legolas takes his father, wrapped around him from behind as they sprawl on their sides in the sheets, he makes the most wonderful, drawn-out sound that Legolas seeks out again and again, pushing deeper inside as one long leg arches back around him and he spreads himself open, demanding more without a single word. Legolas fucks him slowly, staring down at his blissed-out expression and holding on, barely holding on, until his father comes with a rough cry, and he allows himself to spill hard and deep within him.

There is no more fear. No more doubt. There is just this.

And as the night falls and another day begins, this starts to feel like everything he has ever wanted. They eat the food from Galion’s trays, they trail between the bedroom and the bathtub, and they talk. Legolas thinks he has learned more about his father in the past few days than he has learned in centuries. He stretches out in peaceful languor, wrapping Thranduil’s new braids around his fingers as he talks about everything from his own childhood to the first time he tracked a deer in the forest and the time a young Legolas accidentally shot him in the knee with an arrow.

Legolas listens, laughs, apologises, even though he barely remembers the incident. His father merely smiles and prods a finger into his knee in demonstration, poking at him until he is grabbed and flipped onto his back and kissed into submission.

“Your sheets are so strange, Las-nin,” he says when he is released, fingers skating over the forest green fabric. “Why would anyone sleep on linen rather than silk?”

“I get warm,” Legolas says, feeling oddly defensive of his bedlinen.

Thranduil sighs. “And I am often cold. If we are going to share a bed from now on, we may have to experiment.”

Legolas snorts. “What did you have in mind?”

“Perhaps you will keep me warm, fëa-nin,” he murmurs, pouring hot-slow-sweet into the bond.

Legolas fights back with images of his own, realising now that what his father delights in most of all is giving him exactly what he wants. He lacks the confidence of his own words, but he knows how to plead through their connection, and he asks to be kissed, to be fucked harder, deeper, for Thranduil to push up into his mouth and to please not smother his moans when Legolas drives his tongue into him over and over.

Unsurprisingly, his father has no problem asking for what he wants, and what he wants is everything. He wants to push Legolas up against a wall and fuck him until he is sore, he wants to wrap around him in fragrant hot water and take him apart with his mouth; he also wants to be held down, to be dominated, and Legolas cannot quite believe that the king of the woodland realm not only demands to be taken over but relinquishes control so beautifully, drawing his son out onto their sunlit balcony and laying himself out on the cold stone, eyes dark in invitation. Legolas stretches out over him, wondering which one of them is truly in charge here, and then decides that it doesn’t matter, because his father is hot and tight and his legs feel delicious wrapped around his back and the early morning sunshine feels like heaven on his skin.

Afterwards, Thranduil steals one of his dressing robes and drifts around Legolas’s rooms, examining books and trinkets and bottles with curious fingers. They find that they can let go of one another for seconds at a time, but also that they prefer to be touching, and there is an arm around Legolas’s waist as his father wanders the length of his shelves and comments on everything he finds. He feels nervous, as though Thranduil might find fault with the things he has collected over the years, but the bond just hums with a soft feeling of intrigue, and he finds himself wondering what discoveries await in his soulmate’s chambers.

He wonders where they will sleep when all of this is over. What his friends will have to say. If Thranduil will ever tell him exactly how he came to be scarred by dragon fire. He wants to ask, but something makes him hesitate, and his father looks up from his examination of a figure of a spider with gems for eyes.

“Something worries you?”

“No,” Legolas says, and leans into him. He does want to know, but not right now. “I have so much to learn about you.”

Thranduil smiles faintly. “I could say the same thing.”

“We have time, adar.”

“We do.”

He guides Legolas down onto a low couch by the window, arranging them so that they are draped together in the sunshine with their legs tangled and Legolas is curled mostly into his father’s lap. Their flimsy robes part over their bare legs and Thranduil’s hands skate over his skin from ankle to hip. He closes his eyes, allowing the closeness to soothe away the soreness and exhaustion that even Viria’s energising elixir cannot reach.

“I have never experienced time in this way,” Thranduil says thoughtfully. “When I was fading, I felt as though I was at the bottom of a river, stuck in silt and mud. Now, I am moving but I feel completely out of phase with the world around me.” He sighs. “That does not make sense.”

Legolas smiles into his hair. “Yes, it does. Do you… do you remember anything from when you were unconscious?”

“I remember Galion’s voice,” he says, frowning. “I dreamed that Elrond came charging in on an enormous horse and threw a golden cloak over me. It was rather pleasant until he started shouting at me in the black speech, and poking me with a sword.”

Legolas laughs. “Yes, that is exactly how I remember it, too.”

“And then I felt you calling me back.”

“Do you remember kissing me?” Legolas asks, and his father looks away, flickering shame through the bond.

“Yes.”

“Good,” Legolas says firmly, pressing his lips to his father’s forehead. “I would hate for you to forget the first time.”

Thranduil holds him closer and flutters a series of sense memories through the bond: soft white fabric, magic as ethereal as underwater light, the scent of herbs and a kiss that had felt like pure energy. There is a knock at the door and they both look up.

“Are you suitable for visitors, my lords?”

“Come, Elrond,” Thranduil says, before Legolas can even open his mouth.

He sighs but does not alter his position, except to pull his robe a little more carefully around himself. As the door swings open, Thranduil straightens his posture and rests his hands on his son’s legs in a possessive gesture that makes Legolas feel secretly delighted, though he opts to look at the floor rather than at Elrond when he sweeps into the room.

He looks around, sharp eyes taking in the crumpled sheets, the crumb-strewn trays and the section of floor that is still littered with almonds from the idle hours they had spent competing to land nuts in an empty goblet placed on a stray side table. Legolas had learned two things from this endeavour: that his father is almost as competitive as he is, and that he is a delightfully sore loser.

Elrond fixes them with an indulgent smile. “Viria and Galion tell me that you are both doing well.”

“And what do your own senses tell you, meldir?” Thranduil asks, resting his chin on top of his son’s head without seeming to think about it.

“That I have never seen you so happy, and that someone is going to be much less happy to clean this room when you finally see fit to leave it.” Elrond wraps long fingers around the edges of a tattered book. “I am afraid I must go; I am needed at home. I had hoped to stay until you were further along in your recovery, but I am afraid it is unavoidable. Perhaps you will visit once you are able to look away from each other.”

Legolas squirms, feeling the sharp amusement all over his skin, but his father laughs.

“You have my word, old friend. We appreciate everything you have done. Must you leave?”

“It has been almost a week, Thranduil,” Elrond says. “Most bonded pairs are able to separate within one or two days.”

“I think… that we are not most bonded pairs,” Legolas says, speaking for the first time.

“I think you may be right.” Elrond flicks through the book in his hands. “As I had time to spare, I searched your library for information related to unusual soul bonds. I found something of interest—a single footnote describing a pair of sisters. One was gravely injured by a magical blade, which left a distinctive scar. Her sister, born many years later, developed a soul mark in an identical pattern.”

“And they bonded?” Legolas asks, finally meeting Elrond’s eyes.

“Yes. Their bond was uncommonly powerful, though never romantic,” he says, closing the book and holding it against his chest. “I am afraid there is no more information, but I thought perhaps it would interest you to know that such a thing is indeed possible.”

“It does,” Legolas says, feeling a wave of emotion through the bond and then the tightening of his father’s fingers around his bare legs.

“Thank you,” Thranduil whispers, and something passes between the two old friends that Legolas can sense keenly, if not fully understand. “You have worked many kinds of magic here, meldir.”

Elrond nods and turns to leave. “You are radiant together,” he says, and then he is gone.

They barely have a moment to gaze at each other in silent wonder before Viria bustles into the room and regards them with quiet exasperation. She is, as usual, all business, telling them to stay where they are, for goodness’ sake, as she darts around them and performs her checks, pours them each a large dose of elixir and instructs them to eat.

“You are growing stronger,” she says, and Legolas appreciates the fact that she neither mentions their intimate position nor rolls her eyes the way she clearly wants to. She grants them a rare smile. “Your bond is very beautiful, my lords,” she adds, and when she touches her forearm, Legolas wonders.

He hopes she has someone, and that he or she loves Viria as much as his father loves him.

“Thank you,” Thranduil says, and Legolas smiles when he receives the image of a lady with chestnut curls dressed in the uniform of the palace guard.

“You might like to think about venturing outside,” she says as she gathers her things to leave. “The household staff would not be scandalised to witness your closeness… though, perhaps, a change of attire may be advisable.”

“I think some of them might have something to say,” Legolas mumbles when she leaves them alone.

“What do you mean?”

Legolas shifts to face him. “Adar, I am still your son,” he says, fighting down a flicker of anxiety. “This arrangement is… not usual.”

Thranduil touches his cheek gently. “We are bonded, Las-nin. It is simple.”

“In this room, yes,” he admits. “But beyond it… will others not find it… inappropriate?”

“They may be surprised,” his father says. “They may have… opinions. But a soul bond is inviolable. To question it would be offensive in the extreme. It would be an insult to the Valar, and to us, and believe me, fëa-nin, I will tolerate no insult to you.”

Legolas smiles, feeling the protective flare of his father’s magical energy, the tightening of his arms and the warmth of their bond as it ripples around them. He feels as though he is being bathed in love, and nothing else matters. Arlis was right, she was so right. This is a gift. He settles against his father with his eyes closed, thinking of his friend’s soulmate and then of Viria’s, and his fingers drift to Thranduil’s wrist of their own accord. He opens his eyes and gently removes the silver cuff to reveal the faded lily.

Thranduil allows him to do so, but he seems to catch his breath. When Legolas touches the mark with his fingertips, he can taste his father’s uncertainty like sharp citrus on his tongue.

“I want…” He pauses. Takes a breath. “Please do not cover it any more.”

“I do not understand.”

Legolas gazes at him, fingers still resting over his mother’s mark. “How many people can claim to have had two soulmates in one lifetime?” he says, struck by the fact that his father always manages to defy expectations one way or another. “I think she would want you to show everything you are. She wouldn’t want you to hide yourself, and neither do I.”

Thranduil stares at the faded mark for long seconds and then looks up at his son. His eyes are bright and he takes a long, unsteady breath.

“I could not look at it,” he says. “Thinking of her was painful for the longest time, and when it finally eased, I had grown accustomed to covering it. Now, though…”

“Now?” Legolas asks gently. His father’s pulse jumps under his fingers. Under his mother’s delicate lines.

“I will always love her, Las-nin, but now that my heart and soul belong to you, they are whole,” Thranduil says. “It does not hurt me to remember her.”

Legolas rubs his thumb over the mark and takes his father’s hand. He curls further into his lap without a word. Without the need for words. The bond flutters like leaves in the breeze, and he smiles.

Be at peace, fëa-nin. Thranduil’s answering smile is warm against his skin.

The next morning, they bathe and dress with the tacit agreement that it is time to venture out of their haven. It feels strange to be properly dressed for the first time in over a week; the simple tunic and trousers that usually feel so comfortable seem stiff against Legolas’s skin, the seams restrictive and the fastenings over-complicated under his fingers. Galion has supplied the ensemble that Thranduil is now wearing, and while he looks astonishing in it, Legolas feels rather wistful to see all of that beautiful skin disappearing under layers of silk. His father leaves the formal crown on his son’s windowsill, where it has been sitting since all this began, and his clothing choice is simple, almost informal, but it still feels strange.

They stand side by side in the bathroom and gaze into the mirror. Legolas examines his braids with pride; each one is different, elaborate patterns representing heart, body, and spirit. Having made a second attempt at the twists in his father’s hair, he is rather satisfied with them, and the fact that Thranduil is wearing them for him makes his heart light with joy. Their faded marks form a perfect reflection, two mirrored halves of one imperfect whole, and Thranduil’s eyes flicker with sadness as he recasts his illusion.

“Forgive me, ion-nin, but I am not yet ready to show this face to the world. I wish for every last person in this palace to know that we belong to one another, but it has been so many years and I… I suppose I am asking you to be patient with me?” he says, holding eye contact with Legolas in the mirror.

Legolas suppresses a smile that he suspects his father senses anyway. He has had plenty of experience practising patience with this man, but he has the feeling this might not be the time to joke about it. He has spent centuries hating his soul mark, but he may never understand his father’s relationship with a disfigurement that for many years has been nothing but a source of pain and misery.

“I understand. I know that you are mine,” he says simply.

His father takes his hand and the bond seems to let out a quivering breath for both of them. It still prefers for them to be touching most of the time, despite Elrond’s assurances that the need for proximity should start to ease any day now. Guiltily, Legolas hopes that it lasts a little bit longer. He likes touching his father, and he likes, almost as much, the excuse to do so any time he wants.

The fingers threaded through his grip tightly and Thranduil projects nervous through the bond, forcefully enough to make Legolas turn from the mirror to smile at him.

“I am nervous, too,” he admits, but he is also ready, so he kisses his father softly and pulls him out of the bedchamber and into the corridor.

Together, they walk out into the morning sunshine. The air is sweet and cool, and Legolas breathes, relishing the warmth on his skin.

“I am proud to have you by my side,” Thranduil whispers, and then squeezes his hand.

He looks around and quickly spots Arlis and Jaira standing at the edge of the forest. Both of them are staring at Legolas and his father with open interest. There is no way of avoiding them without making it extremely obvious that they are avoiding them, and besides, Legolas realises that he has missed his friends. He smiles at them and sends a questioning flicker through the bond. When he receives a resigned sort of acquiescence in return, he makes his way across the grass, fingers still linked with his father’s.

Arlis’s surprise is so clear on her face that Legolas wants to laugh. Jaira clutches her hands at her chest and beams at him.

“Oh, Legolas,” she breathes, practically effervescing with delight as she looks at his mark. “How beautiful it is.”

“Thank you,” he says, and he believes her. It is beautiful.

Jaira’s dark eyes flick down to their joined hands and then up to the king’s face. She frowns and then seems to remember herself, dropping into a deferent little bow. “My lord.”

Arlis nudges her with her elbow, but she, too, seems unable to keep her eyes from Thranduil’s unmarked face. A wave of anxiety flows through the bond; Legolas immediately goes to soothe it, but then his father grips his hand tighter and lets the illusion drop. The softened scar is only visible for a matter of seconds, but it is enough; Arlis and Jaira seem to gasp as one, eyes flitting back and forth over the mirrored marks. Their gaze is so intense that Legolas wants to stand in front of Thranduil, to shield his soulmate from their curiosity, but before he knows it the smooth illusion is back in place and the only evidence of his father’s fear is his slightly elevated heartrate.

Jaira touches her own hair as though what she really wants to do is reach out and stroke their brand new bond braids. She is a true romantic, Legolas knows that, and he smiles at her, hoping that one day she finds the sort of forever she is dreaming of. Arlis, always more of a practical type, takes her by the arm and draws her back towards the palace with a polite nod, but she grins at Legolas over her shoulder.

“Come on,” Legolas says, pulling his father over the dew-damp grass and into the trees.

Thranduil’s anxiety tightens into something new—a bitter-sharp blend of terror and guilt—but Legolas continues to walk beside him, to hold his hand. He is all too aware of what happened the last time his father was in the forest, and it is for that reason that he walks him deeper into the trees, steps softened by pine needles and rain-damp earth. He knows these woods almost as well as Thranduil does, and he knows exactly where the olostar bushes grow.

Soon, the canopy is so dense that the sunlight can barely reach the ground. The morning breezes stir the scents of sweet wood and new growth around them, and the fingers wrapped around Legolas’s turn damp and grip a little too hard.

“Las-nin,” his father whispers, and it is a gentle plea.

“You are safe,” he says. He slides his thumb over the mark on Thranduil’s wrist. “It’s alright.”

His father says nothing, but when he sees the distinctive white flowers, he stops dead. He closes his eyes for a moment, washing Legolas with pure, hot shame. When he opens his eyes, they are bright with pain.

“I am so sorry,” he says softly. “I had no idea what I was doing to you.”

“Until you did,” Legolas says, and then he wants the words back because the wave of regret swells and almost knocks him over.

“And I am sorry for that, too.” Thranduil sighs. “You saved my life, fëa-nin. I will never be able to repay you.”

“I do not need you to repay me,” Legolas says, and he touches his father’s face with his free hand. “I do not need you to apologise any more. But…”

“Anything.”

“Never do that to me ever again, adar,” he says, and his father smiles, one corner of his mouth twitching against his son’s fingers. “Promise me.”

“I promise,” Thranduil whispers, and draws him into a kiss that tastes like tea and forever.

The forest hums around them, the dreaming thorns grow and the sunlight forces its way into every tiny gap in the canopy. Their bond turns golden, drenching their skin and flowing into the ground beneath their feet. The earth stirs and bursts into new, delicate life, but they notice nothing but each other.

--

Galion takes it upon himself to explain the situation to the entire palace, but there are still questions. Careful ones, mostly asked indirectly, because the king is still the king, but Legolas hears about them, and he is surprised to find himself more amused than unsettled.

‘No one can have two soulmates’ is the thing he hears most often, followed by some version of ‘surely a father and son cannot have a romantic bond?’ but even the stubbornest doubters are quickly convinced when they see the two of them together. They are, by the end of the first week free of their rooms, able to sit beside each other without touching for longer and longer periods of time, but Thranduil reaches for his son so often that the staff become accustomed to finding them pressed together, stealing kisses or running worshipful fingers over delicate braids. If anyone is truly surprised to see the king this way, they know better than to mention it, and the public displays of affection make Legolas feel more loved than he ever thought possible.

He starts to move his belongings into his father’s rooms. Thranduil’s chambers are larger, and he seems rather attached to his space, but he makes room for Legolas, and he opts to yield on the issue of bed linen. He places his silk sheets into a storage chest, and Legolas promises to keep him warm.

After his absence from court, it seems that everyone desires an audience with the king. They find that the separation is bearable if Legolas remains in close proximity to the throne, ideally within touching distance, and he is quite happy to do so. After the first few visitors, he grows weary of politics and settles at his father’s feet with a book, looking up every now and then to admire the picture he makes in his full regalia. He wears his new braids alongside his rich summer crown, and he frequently reaches a ring-decked hand down to touch Legolas’s shoulder.

When the dreaded Lord Umbar is shown into the throne room, the bond prickles with an irritation that is completely at odds with the king’s appearance. He leans casually, as though nothing could possibly trouble him, and he looks sharper and healthier than he has in a very long time. Lord Umbar hesitates slightly before dropping into a bow, and Legolas eyes him over the top of his book with amusement. Hard dark eyes shift to him, narrow, and then lift to the king.

“My lord, I must speak to you alone.”

Thranduil crosses one leg over the other and sighs. “I am afraid that is not possible.”

Lord Umbar bristles. “The matter I wish to discuss is extremely sensitive. Surely you understand—”

“My son and I are recently bonded, Lord Umbar,” Thranduil interrupts, and the lord stares openly at Legolas. He can see the moment he notices the faded soul mark, the braids, the way Legolas is leaning against his father’s offered hand. “It would cause him physical pain to be away from me.” The king shrugs. “Speak or do not, but he stays.”

Lord Umbar says nothing for a moment, simply glancing between them as though he is trying to make sense of the picture before him.

“My lord,” he says at last, words forced out through gritted teeth, and he turns and walks out of the throne room.

Thranduil watches him go, letting his fingers slip through Legolas’s hair. The bond pulses with amusement, but Legolas sends back pride, gratitude, the thrill of recognition, and his father eases his chin back until he is looking up into warm blue eyes. He gazes up at his soulmate, his king, his beautiful father.

“Are you going to sit there and stare at me, or are you going to come up here and kiss me like I know you want to?” he asks.

The bond surges playfully around Legolas and he laughs. Setting down his book, he rises to his feet and climbs into his father’s lap. The throne is just about large enough for both of them, and something about lounging here, with the majestic antlers overhead and his father’s hands on his body, is enough to make him feel light-headed.

“Fëa-nin,” Thranduil murmurs and kisses him.

Legolas brushes his lips against his father’s ear and whispers, “Fëa nárë.”

His father’s reaction to those words is immediate and visceral. The part of him that is the king pulls back and stares at him, pretending scandal, but the man beneath, the one that belongs to him, laughs and kisses him until he is gasping for breath and clutching at the edges of his father’s fine cloak.

There is a loud sigh and both of them turn to regard Galion, who is standing in the doorway and wearing a rather weary expression.

“Yes, Galion?”

“Lord Umbar has decided that he would like to speak to you after all, my lord.”

Legolas looks at his father, presses a kiss to his cheek and begins to climb out of the throne, but strong hands wrap around his hips and hold him in place.

“Tell him to wait,” Thranduil says, and something in his tone makes Legolas feel a little bit sorry for Galion, but then his father is melting against him and nothing else matters.