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“They cover their faces in Imladris”.
King Thranduil the Exceptional and Impressive, Most Splendid and Feared Ruler of Mirkwood, King by the Valar's Grace, Ruler of 2000 Years, Shining Star of Greenwood the Green, Fairest of all Elven Lords, Light of the Dark Ages, Son of Oropher the Magnificent, Elbereth's gift to the Eldar, etc. etc. etc., didn’t even look up from the inventory of his wine cellar. He merely nodded to indicate that he had heard the latest tidings his advisor Lionel had received from beyond the borders of Mirkwood.
“Do they now,” he said, contemplating how many crates of Miruvor to order from the keeper of the cellar. One or two? One. One would be plenty. He nodded and made a note on his list. “A wise decision. With Elrond and Glorfindel not showing their faces, the views in Imladris will improve greatly. I wish they had done so during my last visit.”
Lionel didn’t rise to the bait but continued to read Erestor’s letter.
“It seems to be less of an aesthetic and more of a medical matter. The pestilence, my king.”
It was difficult for Thranduil to imagine the bouquet of a delicious wine while Lionel brought up an illness which involved oozing, dripping and drooling, all of the unpleasant variety. However, an Elf falling ill with it was unheard of.
“Pray tell, why ever does this concern Imladris? They are immortal. Of course, were they mortal men, they would be fools not to wear facial coverings, but while they are fools, they are Elves, so there is no need.”
Lionel shrugged.
“It is a precaution in solidarity with Men and Dwarves,” he explained. “And Orcs. By order of Master Erestor.”
Thranduil wrinkled his nose.
“Yes, of course, who else? I, too, would feel the need to cover up Glorfindel if I was married to him. However, none of this is any of our concern.” Thranduil returned his attention to the matter of his 2865 2nd Ager, but Lionel showed no signs of letting the matter rest.
“My king, with all due respect, I am of the opinion that you should pay this matter more attention,” he said. “Your people expect some direction. For months now, everybody has been talking about nothing but the pestilence, and so, even if it does not concern them, they are concerned. It is very concerning.”
Thranduil finally put his quill aside.
“I have already closed our borders,” he said. “The guards have been ordered to wash their hands in brandywine before touching their bows. All letters from Imladris are fumigated upon arrival. What else do you want me to do? Import Orcs?”
“I was more thinking of some general recommendations,” Lionel replied, folding Erestor’s letter in half. “You know, just so your people know that you… are doing something. Nothing overly dramatic.”
“Pray tell, what measures would you recommend?”
Lionel tapped his index finger against his nose and considered the question.
“The western part of Mirkwood is only permitted to ride Elks between sunrise and noon, while the northern part should refrain from feeding rabbits after 4pm. Chickens must wear bells before being allowed outside and it is prohibited to put pineapple on tomato bread. Riding unicycles on days ending with a ‘y’ is only allowed by special royal permit. Blue clothing should only be worn when accessorised with white flowers, and garlic is prohibited with immediate effect. But if you like garlic, we could instead prohibit onions. I also suggest a special tax of 17.69% on facial coverings imported from Lórien, unless woven by virgins at midnight while riding a unicorn. Oh, and we need new forms. I have already made some drafts…”
Lionel bent down and lifted up a stack of paper.
“Garlic? Unicorns? Forms?” Thranduil threw his hands in the air. “Lionel, by the Forrest Spirits: this nonsense does not make any sense!”
“Of course not, my king,” Lionel said, and dropped the heavy stack of paper on Thranduil’s desk. “But at least it will look like we are doing something.”
Thranduil sighed, then picked up his quill. Ten crates. Ten crates he would need at least.