Disclaimer: Tolkien owns everything but the fangirls. And the babysitter. But he owns everything else. The fangirls and the babysitter are MINE!!!! heh heh heh…. oh, never mind.

King Thranduil looked down into the cradle of his newborn son with a look of disgust on his face.
“WHAT in the name of ERU ABOVE is that SMELL?!?!” he shouted at the top of his lungs. “This boy smells WORSE than a MOUND of ORC SHIT in the SUMMER!!!”

Thranduil was not a morning person. Neither was he an afternoon, evening, nighttime, daytime, in-between-time, breakfast time, lunch time, dinner time, supper time, dessert time, snack time, tea time, high tea time, low tea time, or even elevensies time person these days. He had been perpetually cranky since Legolas, his only son and heir, was born eighteen months before.

For those of you who don’t know or care how many years that is, that’s a year and a half.

Anyways,since Legolas’ mother had died shortly after childbirth, the task of catering to every one of the child’s capricious whims (except, obviously, for the early-on feeding) fell squarely upon Thranduil’s shoulders. See, the palace was being renovated (termites…), they had to temporarily lay off some of the staff, including the nannies. Legolas’ sisters were no help, because they were both off for fostering on the care of Lord Elrond. So, the short-and-short of this is, there was no one but Thranduil who had enough time to look after the boy. He had not gotten a wink of sleep since. Neither had Thranduil.

Sighing, the High King of Mirkwood changed his squirming princeling’s diapers. He carried the dirty one out to a distant shed, holding the diaper in two fingers and the other hand clamping his nose shut.

Once inside the shed, he went to the pile labled *BIOLOGICAL WARFARE WEAPONS; FOR USE IN CATAPULTS*. That done, he turned to go, pausing at the door to carefully relock the seventten padlocks and adjusting the sign, which someone had turned around. It read *Weapons shed; the stuff in here is DEADLY so keep out all elf children and ESPECIALLY YOU, ELLADAN AND ELROHIR!!! These weapons are to be used only in the Mirkwood campaigns against the evils dwelling on Mirkwood, NOT for throwing at Thranduil or Elrond!!!!*

“Damn fangirls, can’t leave us well enough alone! Why these stupid authors have to keep dumping them HERE, I’ll never know…” muttered Thranduil. His grumblings carried him all the way to the house.

Upon his return, he discovered that Legolas had, once again, gotten into the severely depleted sugar supply. The elfling was racing around one of the upper levels of the palace. Thranduil sent for help.

Ten minutes later, the heavily armed squadron of guards found Legolas on the fourth story balcony/rampart. They gave chase.

An hour and a half later, the sugar started to wear off, so Legolas thought it would be fun to see how far he could jump. Off the parapet. With this height, he could probably clear those guards running frantically to the safety of the castle!

The guards that had not yet collapsed from exaustion screamed and fainted.

Laughing, the adorable little elf hopped off the bush he had landed on and headed staright towards the mob of marauders approaching the castle. Stopping just in front of the gathering of demons, he stared up at them, with his wide blue eyes blinking innocently and his golden hair slightly tousled. Legolas knew that trick always worked on his father.

“Will you play with me?” he asked the first of the deadly throng, his lower lip trembling evr so slightly.

“Of COURSE we will, you sweet little thing!” gushed the devil he was talking to. Smiling malevolently, it reached down and picked the poor princeling up in its hideous, pink, claw-like hands.
The fangirls had come.
And they had Legolas in their wicked clutches.
TO BE CONTINUED…

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