The Prince's Pretend Mother

Third Entry - A Piercing Little Star

From north to south across the blue;

A piercing little star was through.

*

Six months later Thranduil summoned me to his office from one of Legolas’s lessons. He poured a glass of red wine so dark it was nearly violet and left it on the corner of the desk for me while he stood at the window with one of his own. I preferred white wines but Thranduil had still never chosen a darker vintage that I did not like.

“How have you been?”

“I am fair.”

He glanced at me, aware that I was loath to speak negatively and the closest I tended to come was neutrality. “Legolas is changing,” he said.

I took a sip from the glass and returned it to the cherry wood desk. “I understand that’s what happens when children grow up.”

He threw a glare over his shoulder at me. “That is not what I mean. His demeanor, his personality. Watching you mourning is quieting him. You must keep your emotions from distorting him. You have retreated into yourself, but I require that you return.”

“I will do my best to change.” My bones were getting heavier. I had noticed that Legolas had grown calmer, less likely to burst out in question or point out something that had interested him, and the changes hurt me like needles twisted into my skin.

“You always do your best but you must try harder,” he insisted.

“I cannot simply—!”

“You must! I chose you for your unswerving loyalty to those you love and for your cheer, for traits he will not learn from me.”

“Our differences may have been a factor but you cannot trick me into believing it was a deciding factor. With another son I was already inclined to motherhood and without a husband I had no other obligations to take my attention away from Legolas.”

Thranduil took several steps toward me. “My son deserves better than to become like me because he learns from both of us what grief can change.”

“You do not understand what it is to lose your child,” I snarled, “to give life to someone and watch someone else take it away—”

The king’s voice rose. “I have not lost my son but do not think I do not know your anguish. I have endured the loss of every son and every daughter who has ever perished under my command and they have done so under my orders.” His gray eyes had become sharper than daggers. “Do not think I do not understand.”

It struck me then, an understanding I had never considered before. How much guilt must Thranduil feel for every death among his soldiers and his guards, who willingly proved in the most permanent way that they considered his life more important than theirs.

No wonder our king had grown so cold, and no wonder he didn’t want his son to grow up like him. I cared about the king—how could I not, when I loved his son as though he were my own. His pain sank through my skin and joined mine.

My bones were shaking, and my lips felt numb. “If this is what love does to people I can understand how you came to be the man you are, but I will regret none of what I have done in my life.”

Thranduil took the last steps until he stood before me, a line between his dark brows, expression grim. “I would not ask you to change for lesser reasons.” Our king made the appearance of his every move and word being entirely deliberate, but for the first time I believe I saw him hesitate as his hand rose, and his fingertips lightly touched my cheek. “It takes a far greater strength to face your grief than it does to ignore it. Suffering does not make one weak, it makes one brave.”