Ah. He had thought the images of Legolas as an elfling lost to him, visible only now in reverie, but that yawn and wrinkling of his nose was nothing but softness. Legolas was grown- like to have his own elflings soon- and it would be poor of him to mention it. Instead, he nodded.

"You may hold me to them, leafling." He smiled down at his son, gentle, utterly disarmed by the sweetness of his expression, the comfort of having him so close, of being reminded of the last time he had looked like he did now. The circumstances around it had been devastating, but Legolas' name, chosen by his mother, had proven true. He was the green leaf, the new growth, the sign of better things to come.

The promise that the tree might not bud in the winter, but that spring would come.