The halls of Mirkwood are quiet, save for the soft rustling of leaves beyond the grand windows—the distant hum of life nestled beneath the thick canopy.

Thranduil moves with effortless grace, stepping into the chamber where you sit with Legolas cradled against you, his small arms wrapped securely around you, his grip tight, unwilling to be parted from your warmth.

"You favor your naneth today, I see," Thranduil murmurs, approaching with measured steps, gaze resting upon the elfling—his son, his only child, still small, still untouched by the burdens of the world.

Legolas does not answer—only presses closer, tiny fingers clutching at fabric, burying his face into the crook of your neck.

Thranduil exhales softly, the faintest trace of amusement flickering in his eyes as he leans forward, one hand resting against your waist—his intent clear.

A kiss—just a brief touch, a quiet moment to greet you.

But before his lips can reach yours, a tiny hand abruptly presses against his mouth, barring him from his goal.

Thranduil stills, eyes flickering downward to find Legolas staring up at him, expression firm in its intent: no sharing. No interruptions. His mother was his, and his alone.

"Ah," Thranduil muses, voice laced with silent amusement as he pulls back, barely fazed by the rejection.

"I see I have been replaced."

Legolas offers no words—only snuggles further, victorious, secure in his claim.

Thranduil huffs, gaze shifting to you, the corners of his lips ghosting toward something near a smile.

"I will have my moment later," he murmurs, fingers brushing lightly against your hand before retreating, allowing his son to bask in his triumph.