A Nin Chronicles Yule

The storm brewed in the west. It lifted the hair on the back of King Thranduil's neck as he lengthened his strides. The wind blew into his face, bitter, and stole the flush from his cheeks. He hissed and pulled his green wool cloak tighter to him. He knew it was impossible to reach his home at Mirkwood palace before the blizzard hit. Already frost crept along the grass on either side of the dirt path.

The snow came with a shriek. It streamed past Thranduil's resisting form and thickened the air. Through the darkening light Thranduil glimpsed a golden glow. Though the wind knotted his cloak and robe around his knees, he hurried toward it before it could disappear in the storm.

The glow proved to issue forth from an inviting window. It fought against the frost slowly taking over the glass.

Thranduil shivered in the growing cold as he felt along the log walls and found the door. He shoved it open and stumbled inside dulled quiet. He leaned back against the door to shut it.

Two figures were instant to rise from a table set near a blazing fireplace in the big room. "Valar be blessed, you are lucky not to have been caught in the storm!"

As Thranduil pushed back his good, his angular face and blond hair came into the light. "I apologize for this rude intrusion and thank you for the welcome."

A distinct chill settled over the room. The man and woman exchanged glances over the heads of their teenage daughter and baby girl. Finally, the woman said, "We are glad to shelter you until the storm ends, my king."

Thranduil hesitated, confused by her attitude. He hung up his cloak to dry on the wall hooks beside the door and came to the table. He left the object of his departure from the palace, a massive stuffed fox, on the bench under the hooks.

Thranduil sat down curiously. Beside the man and his wife and a happy baby, a girl of perhaps fourteen with black hair and small hands sat staring at nothing. She seemed to feel Thranduil's gaze and said, "I am blind, my king."

The silence settled in Thranduil's blue eyes. As he ate the warming food, his eyes strayed to the white windows.

"I see you are eager to be home," the man remarked.

"Yuletide is night after next," Thranduil answered. "I need to be home with my son."

The mention of Legolas, his son, had a marvelous effect. The eyes of the table turned to him and glowered. Later, after accepting a chilly invitation to the small guest bedroom, Thranduil sat on the blue and white bedspread with the stuffed fox in his lap. The animal was soft and warm, made from the fur of a fox that had stumbled into a trap.

Thranduil stroked the fox's back to stop his hands from clenching. He needed to be with Legolas on Yuletide; be there to put the fox into his arms and watch him smile.

Legolas had been in Mirkwood four months now. Still the bruises from his adoptive father, Lord Katar, had not faded. Still he cringed at every touch, thought every kindness was to be repaid in blood. His smiles were rare.

It hurt Thranduil to know the abuse Legolas had suffered was because of him. It was he who had given Legolas into a bad adoption because he could not handle the death of his wife.

Anger bubbled in his chest. Anger at the storm outside. Anger at himself. Anger at the unwelcoming house he found himself in.

Thranduil slept fitfully, forcing himself to dream of the storm ending, but it still raged come morning.

The fireplace blazed joyfully when Thranduil stepped out of the guest bedroom into the warm open house. The woman came from the kitchen behind the fireplace with a plate of pancakes and her husband came carrying the baby.