Kingsfoil [Thranduil] LOTR

Gifted

Thranduil always suspected he was, well, gifted. His mother routinely told him so. And if his father did not openly praise his abilities, Thranduil rather suspected it was because Oropher preferred other means of communicating his praise: a hand on the shoulder or a quiet nod of approval as he watched Thranduil spar in the practice field.

Even his instructors had taken notice. "Thranduil has an uncanny aptitude for battle," Finedhel, the sword master, told his warrior father. "His ability to fight is second only to his ability to predict and react to his opponents' moves. It borders on premonition, Oropher."

Thranduil had beamed then, basking in the hard-worn affirmation of his quiet father's approving nod.

His mother was less pleased. "As if we need another warrior in this family," she said, her voice strained as both her son and husband looked up from sharpening their blades at the table.

But later that night as Thranduil lay back in his bed and stretched out the tired muscles in his arms, he thought about the sword master's words to his father. An "uncanny aptitude for battle." He was not sure what that meant exactly, except he hoped it meant he was the best. He had trained all through his youth: hours of practice, hours more of repetitions, staying late after the instructors left, arriving early before training to get in some extra time in the sparring ring.

Regardless of what his teachers said or how his father's eyes might critically follow his form through practice, Thranduil knew what he wanted. He wanted to be better than any other warrior his age. He had never known complacency. He always wanted to be the best—in the arena, on the battlefield, and anywhere else one might find grounds for comparison.

He was still awake when his mother peeked in on him. "Thranduil," she chided softly. "You're not sleeping? I thought you would be exhausted after such a long practice today."

Thranduil rolled on his side and looked up at his mother in the doorway. "Just restless, I guess. You—you don't have to look in on me."

She smiled then and came in to the room, sat down next to him on the bed, smoothed the hair down across the top of his head. "You will never be too old for me to stop checking on you."

"I suppose so," he agreed quietly.

"Are you still thinking about what Finhedel told your father?" she asked. When Thranduil's only answer was a noncommittal shrug, she patted him on the shoulder. "It is good that your instructor praise your ability, son." She sighed. "And I am proud of you, Thranduil—never lose sight of that. I know how hard you have worked to gain your father's approval in that area. But I never want you to limit yourself on what you can do or be. Yes, you can fight and are very good at it, but you could be so much more—a healer, a scholar, a leader."

Thranduil pushed himself up then and wrapped his arms around her. Her hair was warm against his cheek, and he knew he was probably much too old to be having his eyes grow misty from his mother's words, but he could not help himself. It was like she knew the secret parts of him that he was afraid to voice. She believed in him, of what he could do, of what he could become. As his mother blew out the candle on the bedside table and kissed his forehead goodnight, Thranduil realized—of all his Valar-blessed strengths and abilities—she was the greatest gift he had been given.

March, 3019:

It was already late when the army of the Woodland Realm crossed the long stone bridge leading to the tall doors of the Halls of the Elvenking. Thranduil rode at the head of his army tall upon a dusty grey charger. He was not surprised his queen was not there to greet him at the gate; rather he hoped she was in bed getting some much needed rest.