Chapter Text
All elves know their own blood. Manwë's children recognize their kin by the feeling in their bones, just as they sense the seasons and the song of distant stars, and Legolas has never had reason to doubt this before now.
He's never doubted the truth of his own blood ties but now he is staring down at thirteen captured dwarves and his instincts are screaming that two of them are his. Not just his blood but children of his body and that's impossible. Legolas is sure that he'd remember lying with a dwarrowdam, let alone fathering two children, and these dwarves do not appear to have Sindarin parentage.
The taller one could almost pass for a stunted changeling but the shorter one is about as dwarvish as a dwarf can be. He's all beard and boots and braided mustaches; the only remotely elvish thing about him is the color of his hair.
Indeed, Legolas stares at the pair in a mix of shock and disbelief until a furious growl draws his attention and he turns to meet the livid gaze of Thorin Oakenshield. The elf prince recognizes his face from the golden days of Erebor.
“Stop your staring, elf!” the dwarf lord snarls fiercely. “You have no business with my sister-sons. If you deal with anyone, you deal with me alone!"
Apparently, Thorin claims kinship with the two young dwarves who call to Legolas. However, that just makes this situation even stranger because Legolas knows that he did not bed the dwarf lord's sister; although he's gotten black-out drunk a few times, Dís is not the sort of dwarrowdam that one forgets about.
So the elf ignores Thorin, dismissing the dwarf lord's claims and anger with a shrug. Then he turns to his scouts and orders, “Bring these dwarves to my father's palace. The king will want to question them about their trespassing.”
Legolas needs to talk to Thranduil. He needs to know if his father feels the same connection and he doubts that Thorin would come with him willingly. So the dwarves will just have to come as prisoners.
The prince stands apart as the other elves shove Thorin and his companions into a single-file line, confiscating the dwarves' weapons over their protests. As long as Legolas doesn't actually look at the group, he can almost ignore the thrum of recognition that pounds within his chest. But then one of his warriors grabs the blond dwarf's arm and his pained grunt snaps the elf around.
“Do not damage them!” Legolas snarls, the force of his anger taking him by surprise. Indeed, elves and dwarves alike stare at him in askance but the prince cannot explain his actions without admitting to the blood tie. So he just signals the other elves to follow before spinning on his heel and taking off into the trees.
Running through the forest always makes Legolas feel better and the elf could sorely use some calm right now. His head says that none of this is possible but his heart just keeps screaming, “My children!” anyway.