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"Ah, look who it is my little leaf...it's Ada!"

Anthelísse's words brought a smile to Thranduil's face like nothing else could. Taking off his crown and setting it aside, he went to join his wife and son in what served as indoor gardens for The Halls of the Woodland Realm.

A vast array of mosses grew over almost ever surface, cave-dwelling flora that emitted faint green luminescence. The Silvan elves of old had carved beautiful reliefs into the walls of the underground garden, most of which were now enhanced by the lichens which grew along their features. It was an ancient place, one of the hidden echoes of the earliest days of Arda.

They had first arrived at the entrance to the Halls nearly six months ago. The old bridge which at one time had allowed Silvan elves to pass over a small river between the path and the gates had long since crumbled. It had taken some improvisation with ropes and fallen tree trunks to get Gurithon and a number of his scouts onto the front stoop of the Halls. After great effort, they prised the faded stone doors open and disappeared into the shadows beyond.

It had been nearly two hours later when Gurithon's smiling face had reappeared through the crack in the doors. The Captain of the Guard had declared the Halls safe and unspoiled, just as the Silvan folk had left them thousands of years ago. Across the makeshift bridge, Thranduil and Anthelísse had led the people of the Greenwood into their new home.

In the days since, every elf had devoted themselves entirely to the long process of restoring the Halls of the Woodland Realm. Although no foul creatures such as orcs had breached the stone doors since they were sealed, a number of cave dwellers had taken up residence in hidden nooks and crannies. Many of these were left undisturbed; the Firstborn Children of Eru had always lived in harmony with the other inhabitants of the world. Some though like a colony of bats had to be encouraged to find other lodgings in less useful caverns. It would not do to have bat guano carpeting the floors of the cellars.

The sheer enormity of the task before them meant one unexpected but no less welcome reprieve for Thranduil; a break from the politics of governing. The council had little to no purpose without a realm to order, and so rather than sit about a polished table the various councillors applied themselves to their areas of interest. Daeris spent all her days and nights ensuring the vast cellars of the Halls were stocked and organized. Erchelil had almost immediately immersed herself in the process of taming the many wild fungi growing in the underground gardens. Daerchon likewise had a small army of elves under his direction, carefully shelving all the scrolls and books from Emyn Duir's library in their new homes. Although the Halls might disguise any signs of life from the outside, the many chambers within buzzed with activity rivaling that of an overturned anthill.

Thranduil for his part both welcomed and cursed the long, busy days. Always having something or other that demanded his attention kept his mind from his mother's departure not a month past. Nellas had slipped away quietly one evening, with but a horse and two other elves to accompany her to the Havens. She had said her final goodbyes to Thranduil, Anthelísse and Legolas in private. Then she was gone, the dancing green lights of her eyes swallowed by the forest as she rode. Thranduil did not begrudge his mother her final journey, but he missed her terribly all the same.

The long days were as much a burden as a relief though for the time that they kept Thranduil away from his family. Anthelísse was almost as busy as Thranduil if not more as of late; a newborn elfling demands only the highest levels of attention from their doting parents. Legolas seemed to be no exception to the rule. With every day their son grew brighter, more attentive and more curious about the world around him. It would not be long now before he might begin crawling about under his own power.

With an adoring smile, Thranduil reached for his infant son. "Hello there ion-nin. Ah but you are a sight for sore eyes...and your beautiful mother as well."

"Your father is a flatterer, as always." Anthelísse raised an eyebrow coyly as she leaned in to greet Thranduil with a kiss. "How goes the restoration of the walkways?"

"Slowly." Thranduil said, not without a slight huff of exasperation. "Time has worn away many of the supporting stalagmites, crumbling entire sections and making them unstable even to work on. Shaping stone is not an easy art, but Vindair has proven himself quite capable."

"Small wonder, if what he said about having spent time among the dwarves is indeed true." Anthelísse commented, smiling as little Legolas stuck a finger into his father's cheek. Thranduil captured the tiny digit and kissed first it, then the hand to which it was attached. Legolas cackled with delight and poked Thranduil again, this time in the side of the nose.

"And how have you and our little leaf spent the day, meleth?" Thranduil asked, sitting down next to Anthelísse on a moss-covered bench. A small spring trickled nearby, echoing off the cavern walls and throughout the garden.

"We too have been busy." Anthelísse bit her lip then and looked away. "We went with Aislinn to speak to Maechenel...about cancelling the public coronation ceremony."

"What?! Cancelling the coronation ceremony, why ever would you do such a thing as that?" Thranduil shifted Legolas onto his lap, bouncing the elfling with his knee. Legolas thought this was great fun, and let out a string of "Uh-uh-uhs" as he bounced.

"You have been busy as of late, Thranduil, and have not had time to listen to the mood of the people as I have." Anthelísse said softly, watching her husband and son with love in her eyes. "I have long been thinking on Tharnor's words, as you told them to me."

Thranduil frowned deeply. "Anthelísse, surely you cannot have allowed the poisonous speech of that close-minded viper to disturb you. My mother has departed for the Havens, and you are by right the queen of the Woodland Realm now. I will see you crowned with all the proper ceremony as befitting the Lady of the Greenwood." He reached for her hand, carefully holding onto Legolas with the other as the elfling played with his toes inside their soft vellum boots.

"What does it mean to be a queen though, my love?" Anthelísse squeezed his hand. The faint glow from the cavern plants made her eyes look more black than blue. "Duty to the people, honor to their history, and a legacy for the future." She reached out and stroked Legolas's soft cheek. "Here is that legacy, but what legacy will our son truly have if he is not accepted by the people of the Woodland Realm?"

"They will accept him, they must!" Thranduil said fiercely. Anthelísse's words had stirred up the fears that he had tried time and time to forget since his unpleasant exchange with Tharnor. "He is our son, the rightful prince of the Woodland Realm."

"He is our son; yours...and mine." Anthelísse looked a little sad then, and Thranduil held her hand all the tighter. She squeezed once more, then let go and stood. Walking a short distance away, she hugged herself and studied the carvings on the cavern wall. "I am of the Noldor, Thranduil. The Silvan elves of this forest are worlds different from my people. They belong here, their history is written into the very bones of this place." Slowly she ran her fingers across the mossy engravings. "It is not just Tharnor who sees me as an outsider."

Thranduil stood, Legolas suddenly becoming squirmy in his arms. Looking around and deeming the gardens safe enough, Thranduil set him down onto the soft carpet of moss that covered the stone floor. Legolas stayed sitting upright for a moment before rolling over onto his front and trying to stuff a chubby fistful of moss into his mouth. Thranduil knew the plants were not poisonous though (having confirmed as much already a number of times over with Erchelil) and so he let his son have his fun.

"Who has said such things to you, meleth-nin?" Thranduil asked, coming to stand behind his wife and wrapping his arms around her waist. "Tell me, and I will see to it that spent the rest of their days scrubbing cobwebs from the far corners of the cellars!"

Anthelísse turned in Thranduil's arms, shaking her head but smiling despite herself. "Some things cannot be made to go away with but a single command, Thranduil. The Silvan elves are the majority in this realm, and it matters what they think of me, of you, and of Legolas." The golden-haired elf lady ran her arms up along Thranduil's until they met behind his neck. She caught and tucked a loose strand of flaxen hair behind his ears. "Daerchon and Maechenel would never say as much directly to me, but I know how to hear what is left unspoken. Even those who do not openly disapprove of me still see me as 'other', as an 'outsider'."

"Then surely a formal coronation could only help to dispel such thoughts from the minds of the people?" Thranduil asked. A squeal from Legolas made both he and Anthelísse check anxiously over their shoulders to assure themselves that their son was safe. The elfling had found a small snail clinging to one side of the stone bench and was trying to reach it. Thankfully the little creature was too high up for grabbing fingers to reach. It would only be a matter of moments though before Legolas got frustrated and started to whine though.

With a smile, Anthelísse leaned up to kiss Thranduil. "You are still young, my love." She said gently. "It is not beyond imagining that the centuries may eventually see the people of the Greenwood come to accept me. What I care about now though is that they accept Legolas, wholly and completely. Thranduil..." she looked down, then back up at him. "...we must raise our son as a Sindarin elf among Silvans, as you were raised. He cannot be brought up with the speech and mannerisms that will remind others of his Noldo mother."

"You cannot mean that...do you not mean to teach him to speak Quenya then, Anthelísse?" Thranduil asked. He knew how proud the Noldor were of their heritage, of their culture. Exiles from the Blessed Realm their people may be, the Noldor still had always clung fiercely to the emblems of the house of Finwë. Their language, adapted from the Vanyarin tongue of Aman and their many great lineages were sources of the utmost pride to them. Legolas being the nephew of Gil-Galad, High King of the Noldor, Thranduil had never even imagined that Anthelísse would not teach her son all the customs and traits befitting a Noldo noble. He had always assumed that the two of them would both impart the bearings of their respective peoples to little Legolas, and that living among the Silvan elves of the Greenwood would fill in the third lineage. For some reason, the thought of his son not growing up proud of his Noldo blood upset Thranduil more than he could say.

"But...but what about his heritage?" Thranduil managed to ask, still at a loss for words. "Our son is a descendent of the mightiest houses of the Noldor, of a line of the High King! I would sooner have him raised in full knowledge of his Sindarin and Noldo ancestry before he learns the ways of the Silvans!"

A frustrated cry rose from Legolas, and Anthelísse disengaged herself from Thranduil's embrace. Going to their son, she picked up the little ellon with soothing words. Legolas sniffled, still straining to try and grab at the snail.

"He will know of his people on my side, make no mistake." Anthelísse said, but now Thranduil could hear the resigned determination in her words. This decision had not come easily to her, and he could tell that it was tearing his wife apart inside. "When he is old enough to understand the need for balance between our hopes and desires, and our obligations to the people. Until that time comes, and until he has established himself as a prince of the Woodland Realm, he must be cultured so as to remind people of his belonging to this place, rather than his differences from it. Legolas must be a true child of the Greenwood."

"Is there no way that he might..."

"It is better this way, Thranduil." Anthelísse interrupted, shifting Legolas against her shoulder. "Better for him and for his future all around. It would be kinder not to have him torn in two between such different cultures." She smiled ruefully. "You Sindarins are not so very different from the Silvans; your people have in the space of a single generation already become nearly indistinguishable from the native population of this forest." Anthelísse chuckled softly and patted Legolas's back. "We Noldo are much slower to change, far more set in our ways, and far more stubborn."

Seeing that he was not to win this debate, Thranduil sighed and went to lay a hand atop his son's head. Legolas squirmed around in his mother's arms and looked Thranduil straight in the eye. He had Anthelísse's nose and chin, Thranduil decided.

"Very well then, have it your way Anthelísse." Thranduil said. "When he is older and his mannerisms already established though, then you shall teach him of the Noldor. Agreed?"

"Agreed, meleth-nin." Anthelísse nodded, wincing with pained love as Legolas accidentally grabbed a hold of a lock of her hair.

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