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Thranduil felt as though he must be losing brain cells. As king, of course it was necessary for him to manage the political and economical aspects of his realm. This called for annual meetings with specific people in his kingdom. Lieutenants and captains in the army were the ones that required his audience most. Enemy activity had increased in the outskirts of Mirkwood, and many of the Elven army had been dispatched to each section of the forest with the task of keeping their adversaries at bay. To ensure the utmost safety of the kingdom, they reported frequently, not only to the Captain of the Guard, but to the Elvenking himself.
Then, there were the political advisers. These were his least favorite of necessary allies. They each had well-meaning intentions for the kingdom, but were absorbed in their own status. They often dissolved into arguments with each other, for they were all very pompous and close-minded. Thranduil often found them of very little help.
The rest were a varied assortment of elves. Many were traders. While it did not seem like a crucial detail, Thranduil required all objects in foreign trade to be approved by him. Some would say that it was excessive, but the Elvenking viewed it as a subtle way to control Mirkwood’s relations to other kingdoms.
The endless droning wore on Thranduil’s patience, what little he possessed in the first place. While each visitor brought an important topic to light, after centuries of managing a kingdom, he found himself wishing for the day to just end.
One of his guards announced the arrival of the Rivendell emissaries, his last audience of the day. “Bring them in,” he ordered. The guard bowed his head obediently, and quickly exited the throne room.
Thranduil shifted in his throne, crossing his legs elegantly. He lounged carefully, fully aware of how he presented himself. It was important to keep up appearances, and the Elvenking was always sure to give off an air of superiority. An almost sigh escaped him; he was glad for the last meeting of the day. In the back of his mind, he could not help but feel as though he was missing something. A task he needed to complete or a promise to fulfill. Thranduil nearly scoffed to himself with his last thought; he rarely made promises.
When the emissaries entered, Thranduil tipped his head upward. His gaze was as unforgiving as always. There were three of them, distinguishable by the warm colors of their tunics that were common in Rivendell. They bowed simultaneously. The Elvenking made no inclination to acknowledge the gesture. His gaze was steely.
The one in the center stepped forward, “King Thranduil, it is an honor.” He had a thin, watery voice. “We have brought a small token of gratitude for allowing us to visit your wonderful kingdom.” He gestured to the man beside him. The elf stepped forward as well, opening a box. Inside lay a small water-blue crystal against red velvet. “We present to you a precious stone from the vaults of Rivendell, said to possess the aura of a river itself.” The man bowed again.
Thranduil raised an eyebrow at the elf’s grandiloquent display. He gestured to one of the guards present in the room. The guard gingerly accepted the box, and backed quietly out of the room.
“I thank you for the gift,” he tipped his head slightly in forced gratitude. The other elf popped up earnestly, and straightened his tunic. Believing to have won favor, he spoke out confidently, “King Thranduil, we have been sent by Lord Elrond’s request to-”The elf was cut short by a commotion at the throne room entrance.
“Ada, Ada!” A small elf child clambered into the room, followed by several guards. They tried grabbing him, to keep the small being from further disturbing the meeting, but he only maneuvered quickly out of the way. Carelessly, he pushed through the group of emissaries, who sputtered in indignation. Thranduil nearly chuckled at their shocked faces, before he caught himself. He should have been surprised, but this was entirely too characteristic of the young child. Inwardly, he sighed at the mess that was sure to come about this. His reputation…
The child did not even hesitate at the steps leading up to the throne. The guards had given up, leaving him to the Elvenking’s reaction. The boy hopped earnestly up the stairs, making a small brown bow and holster slap against his back with each jolt. His bright blonde hair tumbled around his face, and his blue eyes shone smartly. The emissaries, meanwhile, were left shocked at the boy’s unruliness.
Thranduil was caught between amusement and exasperation, “Legolas, what brings you here?” The little boy came to a stop next to the throne. Small hands gripped the silver sleeve of the Elvenking’s garments. “Father, today is archery practice!”
Thranduil frowned. He did not remember making plans for such a thing on this day. “Is it? I do not remember scheduling this.”
Little Legolas pleaded, “But father! You promised!” Thranduil titled his head quizzically, faintly recalling such an instance. “I remember now, Legolas. Did I say I would teach you in a fortnight?”
Legolas pulled insistently on his sleeve, “Yes! And it’s been a fortnight.”
Uncharacteristically, Thranduil felt mischievous. “Are you sure? I believe I said two fortnights.” Legolas’s face fell.
“I am merely kidding, my little leaf,” he assured. The smile was instantly back on the young prince’s face. He bounced up and down on his feet, “Please, let’s go now.”
The Elvenking fought the urge to roll his eyes at his son’s antics. “Legolas, if you would calm your boundless energy for but a moment, I must deal with the elves you so haphazardly ran through. It will not take long.” The small prince nodded, mouth forming an ‘oh’ of understanding, and plopped down onto the floor beside the throne.
Thranduil gestured at the emissaries to proceed. Their chosen leader still looked affronted and required a moment to recollect himself. When he did, he bent at the waist once more, “As I stated, your majesty, Lord Elrond sent us. He wishes to create a stronger alliance between our two kingdoms. Though Middle Earth is experiencing a time of peace, he believes it wise to fortify our kingdoms for when this era inevitably does end.
“In hopes you will agree to consider this option, Lord Elrond invites you, your majesty, to Rivendell for a meeting of goodwill in a fortnight. If you show interest in his proposition, Lord Elrond will inform you of his suggestions upon your arrival.”
Thranduil considered his words quietly. It had been thousands of years since any form of alliance had been used between Rivendell and Mirkwood. Although he may hold suspicion, the other elf would not dare to mean harm by inviting the Elvenking to his kingdom, especially in a time of peace. He felt tempted to refuse, but such an action would be highly frowned upon. “Inform your Lord Elrond that I accept his invitation to Rivendell, and have hopes we can come to an agreement on the status of our alliance.”
The lead elf nodded, “Of course, your majesty. Thank you for your time.” The emissaries all took a bow respectfully, and were escorted out of the throne room by a few soldiers.
Thranduil turned to face his small son. “Legolas, you must listen to me.” The small boy looked up curiously. His gaze turned stern, “You must not interrupt my political affairs. Running a kingdom is severely influenced by keeping up appearances, and others would think I do not know how to control my own child after today. So, please, Legolas, do not interrupt my meetings.”
Legolas looked down at his folded legs, “Yes, Ada.” The boy looked so forlorn, as though he were an abandoned baby bird. Thranduil felt as though he physically softened at the sight.
“But I suppose that is not important at this moment. Now, are you ready for archery practice?” Legolas jumped to his feet, “Of course, I am!” The older elf merely smiled at his son’s energy. He stood gracefully, beckoning the young prince to follow him. Legolas did so, walking alongside his father as they wound their way though the castle.
Thranduil led him outside to the soldiers’ training grounds. The place was already occupied by numerous soldiers practicing their craft. Seasoned veterans were dueling with each other, while novices preferred to train on dummies. Despite their chosen method, all reacted differently at the sight of the Elvenking. Many would pause, and suddenly become much more controlled in their movements, as if striving to be perfect. A few were quite bold, and attacked their targets more fiercely. These ones Thranduil took note of. They often held the capabilities to become fearsome warriors that could command regiments. However, sometimes, he found them to be more arrogant than the others. One of these young elves was currently sparring with the Captain of the Guard. As they passed, the Captain, a sagely elf, bowed his head to Thranduil. He returned the favor, but acknowledged him no more.
Legolas had been looking around the grounds with wide eyes since they entered. He had been here many times, but always seemed to be constantly in awe as he watched the members of the Elven army train. More than once, his caretaker, Gwen, had displayed her concern for the boy’s fascination. Legolas was barely over eighteen years old, but quite capable and individualistic like most elven children. Thranduil himself considered Legolas’s obsession to be a beneficial sign. He felt that in the future, Legolas had the capability to become a very skilled warrior.
Thranduil guided him to the archery range, the prize of the training grounds. It was enormous, constructed in tandem with the forest to create a realistic simulation. Targets of all shapes and sizes were scattered all about, at varying distances. Some of the targets were even shaped like enemies found in Mirkwood: giant spiders and orcs. Others were simple circular ones, with a bulls-eye in the center.
The range was busy, filled with many determined elves. Upon seeing the approach of the Elvenking and his son, they respectfully cleared a spot for them.
Legolas happily ran up to the range, “I’m going to learn how to shoot a bow!”
Thranduil smiled gently, “Yes, Legolas. Now, it’s your first day, so we are going to start off small.” He pointed at a circular target close to where they stood.
“Archery takes practice, and there are many fine elements that go into the craft.” Thranduil approached one of the many weapon racks in the range. After a moment of careful scrutiny, he selected an ivory longbow. Turning deftly, he aimed at the target, and let loose an arrow. The feathered shaft whistled as it sailed through the air until it pierced the center with a loud thwack. Legolas gaped on in wonder.
“Ada, you must show me!” the boy bounced with energy. Thranduil beckoned for him to come closer, and instructed him to unsheathe his bow. Kneeling next to his son, he guided the boy’s hands on the grip of the slim wood and nocked the arrow for him. “Archery is an art, a practice of finesse. When you are first learning, you must focus on many things at once, but it becomes natural overtime.” Thranduil’s hand covered Legolas’s smaller one, aiding it as he pulled the arrow back, “Your bow will become an extension of your arm.” Letting go simultaneously, the arrow launched and landed easily on the target.
Legolas turned with a look of excited awe on his face. Before his son could get ahead of himself, Thranduil warned, “You still have much to learn. Now, let us go through it step by step.”
The small boy nodded, and Thranduil began by teaching him how he must hold the bow. “You must grip it here Legolas, just below the arrow rest. When you nock your arrow, be sure to place it in the notch, and hold the shaft between your index and middle finger.” Legolas tried his best, doing exactly what his father said.
“Good, now draw your arrow back.” The young prince did so, but Thranduil noticed a common mistake. Gingerly, he guided Legolas’s bent arm up towards his head, so that the shaft of the arrow was level with his eye. “The shaft of your arrow must align with your eyes, so that when your arrow flies, it goes to where your eyes were focused,” Thranduil stepped away from his son, “Now, center your vision on your target, and release.”
Young Legolas squinted, staring into the middle of the target. With a final breath, he let go of the arrow, and his heart leaped in anxiousness. His father watched carefully. Without Thranduil’s help, the arrow, to Legolas’s dismay, veered off course, and fell to the grass near the target. Big blue eyes swelled with disappointment, but Thranduil swept in, “That was a good first try, my little leaf. Now let us continue to practice.”
They continued like this for quite some time. Legolas shot arrow after arrow, but they continued to miss their mark. He improved gradually, and actually managed to come within a foot of the target. The little prince became frustrated, despite Thranduil’s advice and encouragement.
“Its no use,” he cried, “I’m never going to be an archer.”
Thranduil raised an eyebrow. He had not expected his son to let discouragement affect him so easily. “And what makes you say so?”
The boy’s bottom lip stuck out in a small pout, “I can’t even hit the target much less make a bull’s-eye.”
The air grew quiet around them. Thranduil looked deeply into his son’s eyes. They were pinched and guarded. It was a face of intense frustration, one that he had often seen on his own face when he had first picked up archery. Humming quietly to himself, he pondered on what could possibly motivate his son. There was something; it came close to a sensitive topic, but perhaps: “Have I ever told you of the incompetent archer?”
Legolas let out a small grumble, “No.”
“Well then, I think I must tell it.” Thranduil knelt down, to better look in his son’s eyes. “There once was a young elven boy who failed at archery no matter how hard he tried. For years, he struggled to learn it, but all the other children mastered it far before he could make much progress. Indeed, he was so terrible that his skill was nearly that of a young human child. The boy very nearly gave up his efforts, until one day he met the most beautiful elf he had ever seen. Seeking to impress her, he took up his bow once more, practicing endlessly. When he finally thought he was good enough, the elf proved himself by shooting a pine cone off of a fir tree over a hundred feet away. And therefore, the boy found that even though it had taken all those years, all he needed was the right determination.”
Legolas was enthralled by the story. He had leaned forward, eyes widening in curiosity. “Who was the boy, father?”
Thranduil hesitated, but could not resist telling him, “Why, it was me.”
Legolas broke into a large grin, “Really?” He giggled to himself, “How could you have been so bad?” His eyes brightened, “Who was the elf, Ada? Was she mother?”
Thranduil nearly flinched at his son’s question. He had hoped Legolas would not catch onto the fact. His eyes darkened, “That’s not important. Now,” Thranduil started, “Why don’t we try just one more time?”
“Okay,” Legolas said, and it seemed as though he finally had his motivation back. He set about the task of loading the arrow with focus. As he pulled the arrow back, Thranduil supplied one last bit of advice: “Let your arrow be your message. Let it fly with the convictions of your heart and speak of your determination.”
Legolas changed significantly upon hearing his words. Before, his body had remained loose, as though he was unsure of what he was doing. Now, he grew taught like the string he pulled back. His gaze hardened, and Thranduil saw a confident expression on his face that only the most experienced archers held.
Time seemed to slow when Legolas released the arrow. The world faded away, and all that was left was the arrow and the target. The whistle rang clear in the air, and Legolas did not relax until the telltale thud of the arrowhead in wood resounded. The arrow had hit the target, not very close to the center, but a reasonable distance from the edge.
Legolas burst into a smile, “I hit it, Ada! I hit it!” He jumped up and down, all of his boundless energy back with the thrill of his success. The Elvenking beamed along with him, and clapped good-naturedly at his accomplishment.
“Father, I’m going to be an archer someday.”
Thranduil smiled proudly down at him, “No, my little leaf, I think you’ll become the best archer.”