Thranduil walked purposefully down the shady greenways and narrow forest paths of Greenwood the Great to the sunny hillock where he knew his son would have come to rest after the day's play. It was easy to find him at this hour, sitting alone amidst a cloud of golden buttercups, squinting at a slit in one stalk as he tried to poke the next stalk through. Legolas was well into his sixth summer, and as happy and healthy an elfling as you could wish to find - if rather solitary at times.

"Ah, you are making crowns and bracelets." Thranduil climbed easily up the hill and sat down carefully on the warm grass beside his son and drew him close. He felt warm and dusty and there were grass seeds and streaks of pollen on the dark green cloth of his tunic. Across the meadow he could see a group of older elflings - maybe coming to the end of their fifteenth summer - chattering merrily amongst themselves as they threaded daisies and buttercups together into necklaces and garlands, "Did one of the big girls teach you?"

"No," Legolas grinned proudly at his father, "Naneth once showed me how."

Thranduil's smile faded. "No, no, Legolas."

Legolas turned uncertainly to his father on hearing the dismay in the deeper voice. He supposed that he must have made a mistake again, but he had been so sure that he could remember sitting on someone's lap on a nice fine day such as this and someone making him a circlet of daisies.

"You must be remembering Tuilinn, Legolas." Thranduil shook his head sadly. "You were but a babe when your Naneth last saw you."

"Oh." Legolas spoke in almost a whisper. His father did not often speak about Naneth, and he looked sad whenever Legolas made mistakes or forgot and told him about things that his friends' Naneths had done. Sometimes he wanted to ask questions about her, but it always made his Ada quiet and unhappy and he didn't want Ada to know how little he remembered in case he was angry.

"Tuilinn looked after your Naneth left." Thranduil spoke gently, but a hint of disappointment that neither of them missed tinged his voice. "Do you not remember, little one?"

"I. . . I remember some things. . ." Legolas said eagerly, hoping to ease the frown lines that marked his father's forehead. And he was not lying - he did remember some things, it was just that he was not sure if he was remembering his Naneth or someone else. Deep, deep inside he kept a shameful secret that he could never ever tell his Ada. In truth he could not even remember what his Naneth looked like, or even why she had gone away. He did not even know where he should go to find her.

"You remember Naneth making you your quilt, you remember that do you not?" Thranduil queried eagerly, looking intently at his son. Surely he would remember those long winter's evenings in front of the fire. He would remember choosing the pieces of fabric, and being told tales of the special garments and cloths from which them came. He could not have forgotten the care that had been taken, stitching each patch in threads of gold and silver, and embroidering the edges with leaves of green. "You remember your quilt?"

Legolas bit his lip and looked unhappily at the ground. He remembered his quilt, of course. He had slept under it every night ever since he could remember. It was a bit small for him now, and his toes stuck out one end if he snuggled it up to his chin. Last year Tuilinn had put nice new warm green blankets on his bed - proper grown up blankets - but he had still kept the quilt. Sometimes she would forget to put it out, and Legolas would have to remind her - he was good at remembering the quilt, just not so good at remembering the Naneth that had made it.

"I remember the quilt, Ada." Legolas said softly, not daring to meet his father's eyes.

Thranduil looked at him. "Your Naneth would often take you to the lazy bend of the river, do you remember that? You would paddle and try to catch minnows."

Legolas frowned, trying to remember. He could remember chasing Annach there last summer when they were playing tag in the shade beneath the willows, and he could remember kneeling in the water with Silenlhach and sailing leaf boats. Someone had been with them, someone tall with pale hair. It could almost have been his Naneth.

"I think so, Ada."

Thranduil sighed, then ruffled his son's hair. It was not to be wondered at that the elfling could remember so little. He had been young, so very young, when his mother had left them. It was hardly his fault that he did not know whose eyes smiled back at him whenever he looked in the mirror.

"Come along, impling." The King rose smoothly to his feet and gathered up the little pile of wild strawberries that his son had evidently collected earlier. Scrambling around the woodlands, seeking out clumps of the tiny red fruit was a favourite game of many elflings at this time of summer, and the handful that Legolas had saved were doubtlessly meant to be shared after dinner. "It is time for us to go home."

"'Da!" Legolas hopped after his father, long strings of threaded buttercups trailing after him, and a golden halo falling over one ear. "I am not an impling! I am an elfling!"

Thranduil turned, laughing at the child's indignant protests, and bent down to catch his son neatly with both hands and swing him up onto his shoulders. Squealing with glee, Legolas leant forward and draped a chain of buttercups over his father's ears, pulling carefully until it exactly matched his own.

~*~

Thranduil strode briskly back to the palace, keeping a firm grip on the child's dusty little feet as he hurried down steps or ducked beneath the branches. Legolas trusted him to keep him safe, perhaps a little too much - for when the one that you carried insisted on wriggling and squirming to spy every single interesting thing it was difficult to ensure that they remained steady. While the evening sun was still warm and bright, the shadows were lengthening, and soon it would be time for tea. Legolas would need to be washed and tidied before that of course, and later there would be a book to read and most likely some fuzzy caterpillars to admire. His son had recently discovered the many joys of the blackcurrant bushes, and insisted on running back and forwards in the evening half-light to share every new discovery.

As they left the path and began wandering up the green path through the beech trees, Thranduil placed his little bundle back on the ground, allowing Legolas to race ahead and weave between the smooth grey tree trunks, arms held wide and chirruping like a bird in spring. Eventually, as they approached the elegant gardens of their home, Legolas dropped back to walk beside his father. The King could tell instantly that there was something on the elfling's mind, for Legolas was rubbing his nose in the way that he always did when there was something bothering him. However there was little point pressing the child, for Thranduil knew from experience that his son would only speak when he was ready. Much like his father in fact.

"Once I remember Midsummer," Legolas said slowly, screwing up his face in thought as he tried to picture a time from so long ago. "It was busy and I was frightened. I had a garland but when I turned round everyone was gone. But then someone came and got me and carried me on their shoulders so that I could see everything. It was not Naneth though. . . but I think she was there."

Thranduil smiled suddenly and took Legolas' small hand in his as they went through the little green gate and strolled slowly through the orchards, kicking hard green under-ripe apples ahead of them and then skipping to catch up. "Legolas, that was me."