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The company had faced many crises on their journey, but since they had left Lothlorien the most pressing arose from within: each day as they checked their provisions, there was less than there ought to be. It was clear that someone was sneaking more than their share of lembas.
One evening, Gimli and Aragorn came last to their camp for the night after securing the boats. The Hobbits were busy clearing the camp and gathering kindling while Legolas fletched arrows and Boromir started a small fire.
Pippin took a glance in all directions before sneaking over to Sam’s unattended sack at the edge of camp. Carefully he slid out one of the thin cakes of lembas and began pulling away the wrapping.
“Sh!” Aragorn hissed to Gimli, holding out an arm to stop him setting foot in the camp and disrupting the scene of the crime.
He quietly unwound the ties from his worn-out bracer, removed it, squared up his target, and let it fly. It struck Pippin sharply between the shoulder blades and he dropped the bread with a shout.
Boromir and the Hobbits immediately looked to Pippin, but the usually unflappable Legolas startled dramatically, reeling around to discover the source of the flying object.
“Wherever did you learn that?” asked Gimli in astonishment.
“One of the many skills Lord Elrond taught me,” Aragorn replied.
***
The recent lecture left Estel feeling sulky. Upon his coming of age Elrond had revealed his true name and the great destiny he might achieve-- and yet he still advised him about it like a child who could not think for himself but must be directed and commanded by his elders. His foster father’s daily briefings felt more like a reprimand: lore he must learn, patience he must master, and personal shortcomings he must guard against. Although a grown man by the reckoning of his own race, he was still a child in the eyes of the Eldar and being treated so put him in the mood to behave like one. As soon as he turned the corner, under his breath he uttered the retorts he would not dare have spoke aloud before his lord father.
“Failures of men . . . but who was it that was there, 3000 years ago, like you’ve always said? . . . but I’m the one who has to account for something my ancestors failed in when you were right-- AH!”
His stream of bitter mumbling was cut short by a sharp crack to the back of his skull. He whirled around just as the slipper hit the floor. Shaped to a low point, delicately embroidered and fixed neatly to a hard, flat sole: one of Elrond’s.
Carefully, Estel approached the corner and poked his head around it. Indeed, Elrond stood some distance down the hall, barefoot with the second slipper ready in his hand. He raised an eyebrow. “I heard you speaking. Did you wish to continue our conversation?”
“I thought Elven parents were famed for their patient and gentle rearing of their children,” Estel muttered as he rubbed the back of his head, still bitter from the earlier conversation. The blow had not improved his mood, though he marveled at his father’s aim and curve that accounted for an unseen target in motion around the bend of the corridor.
“The children of Men are typically punished much more explicitly and severely by their parents,” Elrond agreed. “But I assumed that you needed only the brief reminder of what is expected of you-- unless I was mistaken?” The eyebrow went slightly higher and the slipper twitched in his grasp.
Estel swallowed the last of his sullenness and remaining urge to talk back. His intention had been to shame his father, not invite something worse on himself. One hit at distant range with that thing was enough. “No, ada. I’m sorry for being disrespectful,” he conceded.
“Learn the patience to manage your emotions and especially your words,” Elrond admonished him as he went to retrieve his shoe, “or learn better reflexes.”
***
Aragorn and Gimli emerged from the brush.
“Ha! Just as I expected!” Gimli crowed. “I’ve said all along we’d have heard far more complaining from the likes of you if you’d been keeping only to your own portions!”
“But I’m so hungry!” Pippin whined. “I need more than just that little bite at breakfast!”
“We are lucky to have so much as that little bite,” Aragorn replied, retrieving both the bracer and the fallen bread they could not afford to waste. “We will not be so lucky in the future should any of us eat more than our share now.”
Pippin did not seem convinced. “Oh, what have I ever done to deserve such cruelty?” he wailed.
“In the Shire, a Hobbit’s never purposely deprived of food he’s already seen and knows is meant for him unless it’s under punishment,” Frodo explained on his cousin’s behalf.
“It’s against our nature,” Merry nodded solemnly.
“How do Hobbits ever keep any food on hand?” wondered Boromir.
“Why, at some point we’re simply too full for more,” said Sam, “so then the rest remains until we’re hungry again.”
“Are you ever full?”
“For a time,” said Frodo. “But we are accustomed to several meals a day and it is a trial to go without them.”
“You will have to learn to tolerate your own hunger better,” Aragorn advised the youngest member of the fellowship, trying to be as kind as he could. “I understand it is difficult for you, but we do not have opportunities to acquire more food as readily as you have come to expect at home. You will promise to keep out of the company’s provisions?”
“I promise,” Pippin agreed, head bowed and hands behind his back in a picture of contrition.
Aragorn nodded, apparently satisfied, but then Pippin yelped. He stuck two fingers in his mouth as the sheath of one of Legolas’s daggers fell to the earth behind him.
“I saw those crossed fingers!” Legolas called out, unsheathed dagger in his nondominant hand.
Pippin whirled around, guilt plain on his face.
“I thought I recognized that twitch,” Aragorn grinned at Legolas. “It seems mine was not the only Elven father to employ such methods.”
***
“My answer is no,” Thranduil repeated.
Legolas sighed deeply. Why had he even bothered to ask permission? It was always no. His companions’ parents didn’t mind them taking joyrides on the rafts all the way down to Laketown. The king apparently didn’t mind, either, when it was other people’s children. He only minded when it was his own son-- even if by now that son was fully grown and nearly fully mature, capable with a bow, and reasonably adept at the common tongue used by the villagers. He was certain any minor “danger” that could be encountered in this peaceful realm just outside their kingdom’s borders was something he could handle without issue.
Perhaps it was better to simply go ahead and ask forgiveness later. He got such a scolding for daring to ask, he might as well earn it. Perhaps it was time he behaved as a grown Elf and made his own decisions— once his father was busy attending to other things, of course. Perhaps now, just when he had reassured him with promises to obey, would be the best time. The companions that had invited him had said to meet when the sun was just overhead . . .
He gave a docile nod and turned to leave.
“Ay--!” Just as he was passing under the threshold on his way out, he yelped as something struck square against the back of his thigh. He clapped a hand against the sting and looked down at the overturned slipper on the floor.
“I hope you are not still considering it after my explicit prohibition,” scolded Thranduil.
Legolas whirled around, wondering how he could have read his mind. Had he walked away too eagerly? Had there been some sign of defiance carried in his shoulders? If his father could recognize his intentions from behind, he certainly saw the guilt in his chastised expression now.
“If you have convinced yourself that to proceed against my wishes will be worth whatever consequences befall you-- trust that I will ensure it is not,” Thranduil continued, before holding out his upturned hand and waiting silently.
Legolas realized he expected him to retrieve the thrown slipper for him. Equal parts humiliated and annoyed, he crouched to pick it up and walked the several paces to his waiting father. Shaped from fine silver brocade with intricate beading across the vamp, it was surprisingly heavy in his hand.
Thranduil took it without looking his son in the eyes, turning it over to inspect it. “Now you’ve gone and scuffed it,” he sniffed.
“You threw it at me!”
“You made me throw it at you.” He frowned. “There’s a bead missing.”
The subsequent pause spoke as loudly as Thranduil’s waiting hand. Once again, Legolas ended up on his knees on the flagstone floor, scouring in the low light.
This retrieval was not forthcoming, however, so Thranduil left his son alone to his task—though he was content to make his exit wearing the damaged slipper, Legolas noted with some resentment.
It was nearly an hour before he finally found it wedged firmly between stone and baseboard-- how hard had his father thrown it, to have lodged it so thoroughly?-- and the time he might have met his companions for carefree rafting into Laketown came and went.
He tracked his father down in his private chambers, sipping wine and now dressed in lush purple and gold with velvet slippers to match, and passed it to him. In contrast, Legolas felt stiff both in attitude and from the bruises on his knees. It was difficult to disguise his sulk. “I hope you have not been too troubled by its absence.”
“Your task is not yet done,” Thranduil corrected him, taking a sip from his goblet with one hand as he reached for his table with the other, retrieving the damaged slipper from where he had apparently kept it for this convenience. “You may ask one of the butlers for needle and thread, and their assistance if you require it. Do be sure it matches the other properly.”
Legolas sighed deeply. “I expect it was your aim to occupy me so thoroughly that I did not have the choice of whether or not to defy you, but I wish you would have at least let me prove whether or not I would heed you.”
“Count yourself lucky. You would be far worse off had you actually defied me.” He passed the second slipper to his son but shook it firmly as Legolas took it, staring him the eye. “As it stands-- I see you are feeling aggrieved?”
“Well, yes.”
“And you regret that I continue to waste your time with this petty errand?”
“It will be an inconvenience, yes.”
“Does your leg still sting?”
“A little.” He did not mention that the worst of the sting was to his pride.
“Are you in a hurry to defy me again?”
“No.”
“Good, then it worked. If in the future you do not wish to be stung, aggrieved, and inconvenienced, do not consider defying me again.”
***
“We do not deprive you out of punishment or cruelty, Pippin,” Aragorn continued, “but if you cannot exert the discipline for yourself and I ever catch you stealing more than your portion for the day, I will withhold your next day’s meals.”
Pippin sank to his knees in histrionic despair.
Merry went to him, whispering encouragingly in his ear. “Say, why don’t we practice that trick of throwing?” he suggested. “Every time you’re feeling hungry, you can knock one of them in the head!”
“If I have the strength for it when I’m not wasting away from hunger!”