Blinking and squirming, tiny hands reaching out for me, short, fleshy legs slowly kicking. These are the first memories I have of my son. I held him in my arms, cradling him in the soft blanket he was partially wrapped in, blinking through my tears at the life my mate and I brought into this world.

Thranduil Oropherion was born in the waning months of first millennia of the Second Age. My son has been my pride and my joy, for all of the years of his life. My wife passed shortly after he was born, her spirit and body too weary to sustain her any longer. I have raised my son alone, and he has been ever brave and loyal to me.

The years passed and he grew tall and willowy, like his mother. He was quiet, but his eyes, the color of a clear summer sky, ever twinkled with mirth, and glowed with an unearthly wisdom for one so young. My son has always felt a close connection with the wood we call home. He can read the forest, hear the whisperings of the trees and the animals that live within it. From his earliest days, the beasts of the forest have loved him, and he often walks among them as their friend. My son loves all living things, and I have been able to protect him from those that do not love him back.

Long, elegant limbs, the fine arch of his foot as he sticks one toe into the cool waters of the pond we come to for bathing. His bare legs, slender and graceful, will one day be muscular and powerful, the legs of a warrior. The sun glints off the surface of the still water, causing his flaxen hair to glow as it falls around his shoulders, unbound. He holds his arms out, gracefully balancing on one leg as he tests the waters with his toe, and he turns and looks at me, twisting his body so elegantly, an expectant smile on his face.

I sat on a large rock in the sunshine, watching over my charge, over the most precious possession I have. Around us, though one cannot see them, are my archers, faithfully guarding the small meadow to which we have come. I smile and nod, and he raises his hands over his head, fingers clasped together as he leaps from the rock into the cool water, barely breaking the surface.

I watch him as he floats upon his back, his young body still so limber and elegant. He swims back and forth, a smile curving his pink lips as he enjoys the water's cleansing properties. He reaches out and strokes a fish with the tips of his fingers as it swims by, yet another friend in this forest in which we live.

He rises from the pool; his golden hair clinging to his face and back, water falling like rain as he shakes his head. He runs his long fingers through it, combing it back from his face as he bends to pick up a cloth to dry himself with.

"Are you not swimming, Ada?" he asks me. His voice just is beginning to change from youth to maturity.

"Not today, Iôn," I answer him.

He wraps himself in his robe, smiling as he walks toward me. He sits upon the ground in the sun and hands me a comb over his shoulder. He leans forward; his long legs crossed, elbows upon his knees, as he props his chin upon his hand. He sighs contentedly, twirling a piece of clover between his fingers as I comb through his wet locks. I pull the strands together, forming fine braids that meet at the back of his head. The smell of summer surrounds us, flowers in bloom, the fresh scent of pine. If I could, I would keep this memory always, but others begin to take its place.

A moonlit night, warm and still. My son walks hand in hand with his betrothed through the gardens of our homeland. He is tall and strong now, no longer an elfling. He is a prince, a warrior, and soon to be a husband. My son will marry his love, and she will bear him offspring, and he will be a father like me.

We ride south upon the morrow, toward Gladden Fields. Then we will ride south and east, to the black lands. War is coming, none can escape it, and my son rides with me into war against my wishes, but I cannot protect him forever. I smile as I see the gentle caress he bestows upon his love's cheek, and the rosy blush that follows it. He laughs softly as she murmurs something in his ear, his sapphire eyes sparkling with mirth, her own gazing up at him as if he were a Vala.

My son is as beautiful as the Valar, kind, gentle, yet fierce. A consummate warrior, the finest archer of all those who serve me. Thranduil is the best parts of me; he is a gift more precious than the light of Eärendil. I would give my life for him.

Our last night together, in my tent upon the Morannon. He stands before me, proud, fearless, beautiful. I place my hands upon the sides of his head, pressing my forehead to his, whispering the words all fathers know, whispering words of praise and love for my son. I tell him how proud I am of him; I tell him what joy he has brought me in my life. He leaves. I see him smile at me over his shoulder, a smile that tells all in his heart. I watch him until I can see him no more in the dark.

I feel the cold, wet ground soaking through the knees of my leggings. Through the mist, I see my son upon the hill, firing his bow, fighting with valor. The beast that has slain me steps into my field of vision, blocking out the image of my son from my waking eyes. "Do your worst," I growl, fighting not to choke on my own blood. "What matters to me most you cannot take." I close my eyes, the vision of Thranduil burned upon my eyelids as I fall into darkness.