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The air was almost electric as workers bustled away cleaning, arranging, organising, and decorating nearly every inch of the kingdom. Mirkwood forest was now officially dubbed Eryn Lasgalen, and word had just arrived concerning its Prince- who was finally returning home after over a year of expedition. A tone of excitement ran through the land's people and into the trees themselves. Formal arrangements were currently being made for a grand feast, and everyone who had a free hand to spare found themselves lost in joy prepping the woods for festivities. It was at this moment where most everyone recognised the moment for grieving was over. Less and less time did the elves spend at the memorial site, choosing rather to respect their fallen comrades through the celebration of life, rather than solemn grief, in their ever-so Silvan way.
It was there at the guarded graves of the fallen where Legolas was found- doubled over and shaking, hands outstretched and delicately touching the leaves of saplings planted in honour of the dead.
A soft sigh escaped Thranduil at the sight of his son. Long strides brought him to the young elf, where he paused for a moment and then knelt down onto the dirt with him- forsaking decorum for intimacy. He noticed how Legolas’ hand strayed on a particularly wilted leaf, rolling it in his fingers as if to pick it- in order to save the rest of the plant from illness.
“You could do with a bath.” The King finally spoke.
Legolas smiled a weary sort of grin in response, still gazing at the leaf. “I’ve walked through leagues of ash and smoke to reach here. Through ruined remnants of watchtowers and through the charred skeletons of trees and orc.” His smile dropped.
An eyebrow raised. “You came from the South?” Tranduil asked, a note of concern ringing in his tone.
“Of course I did.” Legolas spoke- as if the reason for the path he took was perfectly obvious.
Thranduil moved his hand to linger above the soil, and let himself feel the thrumming of the forest- its heartbeat ringing strong and true. “There is not only destruction here, my child.”
“That is all I have seen. Fallen remnants of my home.” Legolas murmured, unaware of his Father’s gaze sharpening at the out of character pessimism in his tone.
“Thus is the fate of every forest.” He said sharply. “Tall, proud trees must inevitably fall, to give space for light to reach the new. And whether by the hand of the living or by command of the Vala, every old forest will eventually burn-” Thranduil reached out and touched the soil underneath the sapling, watching as it sprang up, as if trying to touch the very sun itself- healthier and stronger than ever. “-To give life force to the new generation.” He rose to his full height, gripping his son’s hand and gently bringing him up as well. “The soil is rich with nutrients for the forest, and each of our fallen lives on in the trees planted below us.* As they fall so shall they live again.” He paused. “Do not tell me that your time spent abroad has made you lose sight of the cycle?”
Legolas remained silent for a while, regaining his composure. Had it been years past, he would not have faltered at his father’s cryptic sentence, that seemed to ask everything and nothing at once; thus was the nature of a loaded question, and thus was the nature of his father to ask them. But after months away from home, Legolas was caught off-guard, and found his skills of diplomatic speech almost entirely gone. He sighed, and abandoned any urge to humour his father’s dialectical games. He was weary and frayed at the ends. Tired. He finally understood what Mithrandir meant back what felt like lifetimes ago, when he recounted an anecdote of Bilbo to Elrond. ‘Like butter scraped over too much bread’, Legolas was spread thin. His shoulders were tense and locked, for every moment since he reached the South border he had spent it waiting and poised to hear the call of danger; whether it be orcs, wolves, spiders, or… the sea. He was waiting to see if that nightmare would dare follow him home. It hadn’t so far, and that was good, and it was that thought that led Legolas to smile. “How could I ever forget? It is one of the first things of importance you taught me.”
“I personally would think that the very first thing I thought you of importance was to not wet the bed, but to each their own.” His father quipped.
A startled bark of laughter escaped Legolas, breaking him completely from his melancholic reflections. “Ada!” He cried, and then whipped his head around to look at Ialarwen and Erurlas, Thranduil’s trusted and long established personal guards, as each let out ringing chortles of laughter. It would not be outlandish to assume they were on guard outside the door every time Thranduil had given his ever so eloquent ‘potty’ lessons to his son, for they were, and they laughed fondly at the memory of it.
A light hearted back and forth began as they walked from the memorial garden to the personal halls that housed the royal rooms. And with the orders to “Make yourself presentable!” and the advice to “Put a little oil in that wild mane of yours my son.” and a final shout of “Do make sure to actually bathe , Legolas!” (would his father ever let that one time go?) Legolas disappeared into his quarters to situate himself and get ready.
A long walk down a winding corridor followed after, open and rich with newly revealed skylight. A rather positive consequence of war, if one could say such a thing. For the light was rich, and the hallways seemed to gorge itself on its warmth. The labyrinthic hallway eventually led to the common hall entry-way. It was at this point that his face dropped its smile, and he called out to Ialarwen. “Fetch the healers.”
“Himeldir, I presume my Lord?”
Thranduil paused, considering. “Send for both.” He ordered in a clipped tone, and watched as Erurlas opened the grand doors revealing harried staff setting up decorations for the festivities. He walked inside without another word.
Himeldir and Henior have arguably known Legolas for longer than Thranduil himself, if by mere seconds. For they were the first to hold and tend to the elfling after his somewhat complicated birth. They knew him like the back of their hands. The behaviour of the elf Thranduil recounted was more than strange, it was fully out of character. Henior said exactly that.
“This is out of character, my Lord.”
Himeldir quickly chimed in. “Legolas has just returned from an arduous journey to the very mouth of our enemy’s kingdom. He was present at the battle of Mordor. No doubt that battle, and however many others he must have fought in weigh heavily in his mind. I see that his behaviour might be strange, but if we consider his circumstances, it is quite rational, is it not?”
Henior looked at Himeldir. “No, muindor . This is out of character.”
This was the reason Thranduil called for both healers. For while Himeldir was undoubtedly the best of the woodland realms medics, having been trained formally in Doriath, and near single-handedly rendered aid to the survivors who escaped the second kinslaying, Henior- the younger of the two siblings- had always been more in-tune with the science of herbology and the mind. Innate was the elf’s ability to discern how to heal the mind, so much so that many sought after the strange elf. With a distinctly feminine face, masculine gait, and other-worldly perspective, Henior was non-definable by any measurement, including that of gender. Many a times had Henior been called upon by formalities of both genders- so many times, in fact, that it is rather common now for whoever is speaking to the elf to simply pick and choose whatever pronoun they see fit in the moment. Thus was the fluidity of Henior reflected in the body, and in moments like these, thus was the fluidity of the elf’s mind reflected in speech.
“You allude to him having Soldier’s Sickness, but that manifests differently than this. From what I am gathering, Legolas is harbouring a sadness so deep it is as if he has held on to it for many a year. For him to seek out the South, and to witness the destruction of his lands, is a behaviour so self-destructive for the elf it surprises me. Acceptance and avoidance has always been Legolas’ preferred coping mechanism-” a sly look was delivered to Thranduil at that moment. “He’s always cut his losses at the bud and focused forwards. It appears now that he’s looking back. That is out of character. He is near wallowing. Not even after-” Henior faltered. “The incident,” he said gently, “did Legolas wallow in his misery. He copes through action, through positivity.
I know too little of what happens now to give a full diagnosis. He has just arrived and we have only had a singular conversation with his highness. I will say I do not think the situation is particularly drastic or needs immediate fixing. I agree that it is more than likely the events Legolas has experienced that affects him now, that is to be expected. My worry lies in the handling of this situation. Legolas is grown now, sad as that is to say, and I do not know his mind as well as before. These uncharacteristic behaviours could simply be a new reflection of himself manifesting. He has, quite literally, just been through hell.”
Henior paused for a moment, to breathe. Rare is it that she speaks for so long , Thranduil thought. Alas, when it comes to Legolas, Henior, along with many others of the kingdom, held a soft spot for the Prince. “Your suggestion?” He asked.
“I do not think the behaviour you saw is anything to worry about, but it is something to observe. This kind of pessimism, is a bit strange for Legolas. And while it could simply be a change in his personality from his age, it could also reflect the severity of what he has seen and gone through. I recommend a modem of tenderness be given when speaking to Legolas, and I would like to speak with him, at some point. I recommend you speak to him as well; preferably before I do.”
Thranduil paused to take it all in. His son would not be pleased with everyone walking on eggshells around him- they would have to be subtle, lest they inadvertently set him off. “Perhaps after the festivities I shall speak with him. I do not want negativity to shroud celebration tonight. This evening is for joy,we will merry-make, we will watch the stars, and we will make appearances. Tomorrow we will speak of the past and future.” The King had a note of dismissal in his tone.
It was at that note that Himeldir and Henior made their departure with a murmured “Your Highness.” and a deep bow. Himeldir gave pause at the door before leaving, turning to his King and friend. “My services are always here should you need me, Aran-nin .” His gaze lingered for a moment, then he followed his sibling down the corridor.
Leaning back in his seat, Thranduil took a moment to reflect on the conversation, appreciative of the reassurances given by Henior, but also wary of the warnings. Nevertheless, tonight was a night for celebration. And Thranduil was sure that the joyful spirits of his people’s merry-making would undoubtedly cheer his son’s mood. The King rose from his chair and called out to Ialarwen. “Send for Galion, tell him to meet me in my chambers.”
He made swiftly for the door, then stopped midstep. “Oh, and do tell him I will need my good robes.”
Both Ialarwen and Erurlas let out hearty chuckles. When the “good” robes came out, that meant their King was participating in the festivities himself- and never let it be said that Thranduil, King of the Woodland elves, could throw a bad party.
It was a time of peace and prosperity in the kingdom, one that all the woodland elves knew was true and fated to last. An almost perverse energy of light and merry mirth flooded the air of all the realm and it lifted up the spirits of every elf. Even the most overworked of elves had a pep in their step as they dusted off long hidden treasures and placed them proudly along the feasting halls. A beautiful thrum of music rang through, hours before the party, as excited citizens and staff started festivities early- filling the royal halls with their songs of joy and their laughter. Wine bottles were already opened, and near everyone was sneaking a sip or two as they worked, Galion included, as he snatched up a bottle of the finest wine, a tray, and two goblets with a flourish and spin. For even he was in a splendid mood, and joined the Silvans in their song.
It is in response to this peaceful and merry environment that Legolas found his mood stabilising and he listened with open ears to the songs of his people that reached even his halls. His grief moved to the back of his mind as he hung nearly halfway out of his window, gathering freshly blooming buds of flowers from the newly growing fruit tree beside the royal halls. A bird pecked at his fingers, and stole a petal from his flower for its nest, chirping away a song. Not even the birds could resist the music, and nor could Legolas. As he touched the branch and matched his voice to the tune of the wood. The bird came back with a vengeance, at first feigning interest in his song, then pecking at his fingers one again and snatching the whole flower.
“Damn you!” Legolas snickered, and then reached for another bud.
“And who is it we are damning, my son?”
With a hard smack to the window sill and a grunt of excretion, Legolas wrung himself back into his room and stood to face his father.
“Nothing out of the ordinary.” He said conspiratorially.
An eyebrow raised. “Ah yes. Pardon my confusion at your ever-so ordinary activity of hanging out the window.”
“Well I’ll tell you it’s a perfectly normal activity!” Legolas said with his nose held high, as he walked over to his desk laid out the buds and branches he had gathered in front of him. “Perhaps you should try it sometime.”
A soft chuckle broke the back-and-forth. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you do something normally, iôn-nin . Strange and curious are your ways, I say, in the most endearing way possible.” He reached for the flowers, then paused. “Are these for me?”
“Well Adar , you did say for me to dress my best. I figured that you’d like to be at your best as well. That crown of yours is… so last season . Time to get with the times, Aran-nin. ” He grabbed a budding flower and stood on his toes, weaving it into the branches of his father’s crown. “Spring is here, after all.” He murmured.
Thranduil smiled, and sat down at his desk. Relishing in the company of his son, who pranced around behind him, picking the winter berries from his crown and swapping them for the new life of the spring.
He felt the bittersweet mouth of nostalgia nipping at his chest, for this activity was Legolas’ favourite to do as a child, and it warmed Thranduil’s very soul itself to know despite it all his son was still the same at heart.
A rustle was heard from the window, and as if reaching out to its King, a branch began to infiltrate the room and its flowers bloomed bold and fast, prostrating themselves proudly for Legolas to pick them- honoured to be seated on the crown of Thranduil the Great.
An air of calmness settled in the room, only broken by an elf’s quick entrance inside. Galion, the ever so loyal servant of the King, swiftly came in bearing his tray of Dorwinion wine.
Careful, as to not break the intimate air in the room, he set the tray down and began to pour out a particularly large portion of the wine and laid it in front of the King.
A small smile made its way onto Legolas’ face as he watched his father take a hearty sip. “I take it you plan to enjoy yourself this evening, Ada .” The King did not respond, though he did smile into his glass.
Galion set down the Prince’s goblet, empty, and held the bottle in wait. Legolas grabbed the berries from his father’s crown, the last of the winter berries picked early that morning, and squished them, letting the juice fill the bottom of the cup, then motioned for Galion to fill it with wine. Before taking a sip Legolas thoroughly twirled the drink around, thickening its consistency and darkening its colour. He took a modest sip in test of its flavour, then a deep one next. Galion snickered.
“Ever so strange are your ways Legolas. If not for your looks, one could almost not tell you were Thranduil’s son! For all know of his taste for a fine drink.”
A chuckle was heard as Legolas made a face. “Ach! How you all are so fond of your spirits I do not know! They all ring sour and dehydrating in my mouth. I think you are the strange ones, for drinking such a foul concoction plain.”
Thranduil smiled, “It is not surprising you need a touch of sweetness in your drink. You are still young, and the spirits of this wine are strong. Of course you would need something to help get it down.” He teased, and watched as an air of challenge started to rise in the room.
Legolas leaned down, carefully weaving a flower into his father’s crown. “I am not an elfling Ada, I can handle my drink just like any other elf.”
“I plan to see exactly that tonight, iôn-nin .” Galion watched as both Lords drained their goblets, and with a sigh made a mental note to send extra staff to each of their chambers- they would not be able to dress themselves come the end of the night; nevermind even find their chambers, if this is how they are starting the evening. He smiled.
It was into his fifth (or so) goblet of wine that night when Thranduil finally found the spirit taking hold. Not in himself, no, but in his son- who had lost the battle of self-restraint during the feast. He was unable to say no as old childhood friends and squad partners poured him glass after glass of wine during the feast- snickering everytime the elf scrunched up his nose at drinking it plain, but drank it did he nonetheless, emboldened by the warm and comfortable energy of the feasting hall. His son was on the main floor now, swaying around in the arms of an old friend. It was in these moments where Thranduil could truly see the Silvan in his son, as his carefree joy and dance influenced a kingdom’s worth of elves to merry-make with him. So influential was Legolas’ joy, in fact, that even Henior, the ever so stoic elf, was goaded into drink and song.
“Truly the spirits are flowing tonight,” said the Captain of the King’s guard, nearly shouting in Thranduil’s and company’s ears, “if Henior is on the dance floor!”
The King watched the spectacle from his spot on the dais. Legolas had successfully coaxed Henior to the dance floor with a popular tune, and they watched as the two elves took pause before they both stomped and began a traditional dance. Arms swinging and loose with drink, they spun in large circles- ever so often stopping to stomp and deliver a loud clap that was echoed by the crowd who came to witness the show. They watched on with loud cheers of joy and encouragement as the two more strange characters of the kingdom lost themselves in the air of celebration. Thranduil smiled. No matter the rank or nobility of the blood, in moments like these he and his people found themselves to be equals.
“Has he ever been able to resist Legolas?” Galion said through a mouthful of bread he brought from the feast- no doubtedly trying to sober himself up in preparation for his later duties.
Thranduil looked forward and watched as more elves followed his son and healer, and soon there was a grand group of elves all dancing in sync. Well- dancing was a term used lightly, for the odd elf here or there would fall victim to the drink, and was dragged off the floor by staff set for that explicit purpose. There was a running bet on how many elves would fall before the end of the night, and so far it appeared Ialarwen was winning, much to the King’s annoyance.
“He has never been able to resist that child, the poor fellow.” Thranduil’s advisor spoke softly. “He’s been around him ever since Legolas was but an elfling, he’s guiding him and comforting Legolas ever since- Ever since he was young.” She trailed off, wisely choosing to stop her train of thought as to not break the light mood.
His entourage all glanced at the King, trying to gauge his reaction. Ever so random was his reactions when one even neared that specific subject. They waited for a response.
Thranduil looked forward, and with a deep sigh of resignation, he spoke. “He has leaves in his hair.”
The elves around him burst into laughter at the sight; completely unsurprised. Galion spoke: “He’s had them in there since we left his chambers, my Lord.”
Impossibly, the laughter grew louder- but not from them. No, rather, the laughter from the elves below them had grown to a roar. Thranduil and company looked on inquisitively, catching the exact moment Legolas hit the floor, and his staff ran to pick him up.
“Uh-oh!”
“There he goes!”
“Down goes the Prince!” They cheered, as the servants helped Henior bring Legolas to their King. Thranduil snickered as his son banged into his chest, at first attempting to use his father’s forearms as leverage to pull himself back up before accepting his fate and letting his knees give out.
“Off we go! To get some bread into this Prince of yours!” He shouted to his subjects, as Henior and himself wrapped Prince’s limp arms onto their shoulders. The crowd cheers and laughs as they all make their way to the dining hall, for while the party for the citizens remains here, those standing with the King knew that the party would live on in the feasting hall.
Legolas stumbled in between the elves as they began their journey, completely unaware of where they were taking him- but excited to be going nonetheless. He wobbled his head, and caught a lock of white hair in his mouth. “Ack!” he cried, and immediately began spittling- he had no hands to take the strands out of his mouth. “Ada! Control thine hair I say!” He fought to find his legs. “Everyone, everyone loves to say mine is a rat's nest, but look at yours! It’s everywhere.” Chuckles rang out as Legolas’ drunken ramble continued. “It attacks me!” He whined.
“This is all very funny coming from the elfing with a forest growing in his hair!” His father quipped.
“There’s leaves in my hair?”
“Yes Legolas.”
“Leaves?”
“Yes Legolas.”
“Leaves?”
“ Yes. Legolas. Leaves from earlier.”
“Oh. Well, don’t worry about that. That’s just my crown.”
Thranduil’s knees almost gave out, and he let out a roar of laughter that echoed through the hallway. It infected the others quickly, and everyone began to lose themself in mirth.
“Laughing, laughing! At your very Prince?” Legolas said incredulity. “You journey across all of Middle Earth, come back home, and this is how you are treated. In your very own Kingdom! I’ll tell you Galion- Princehood is not a lucrative job. I think I’d rather be a Hobbit. I’ve met a few, and they all come in different shapes and sizes. I could be a tall Hobbit. And live with my Hobbity friends.” Legolas rambled incoherently as the doors of the dining halls finally came to view. “They eat, sleep, and play- all day!” He chanted. “Oh do they eat! Ada you would not- You would not believe! I have seen a Hobbit eat four slices of lembas bread! Four! Four I say! That is simply not natural. That takes skill. I think at first, when I overheard him say he ate four, I was baffled. But now, now. Now in this moment I think that’s quite honourable.”
Thranduil and Henior made eye-contact, both shaking their heads. Legolas was without a doubt, certainly, the drunkest he had ever been- barring his coming-of-age ceremony.
The doors of the dining hall opened, revealing Ialarwen, who had heard the commotion outside the doors. Her eyes bulged at the sight before her. “Speak of the devil, Himeldir!” She cried, looking back into the hall where the head healer sat brewing many a tonic, with the assistance of Erurlas and a small handful of their compatriots- long standing members of the royal court and about two or so overworked trainees.
“What did I say Erurlas!” Himeldir cried. “At the rate we are getting these fallen guests soon we will run out of mint for tonic. Despite all that complaining of yours I was right to prepare early.”
Erurlas rolled his eyes, preparing a retort before suddenly looking gobsmacked as his Prince was carried in the room by Henior and Thranduil. “Well I’ll be damned! The Prince has fallen!”
Himeldir rushed up at that, and swiftly pulled out a chair for the poor lad, and began feeling his cheeks for warmth. “Legolas!” he cried “How in the world have you let yourself get to this point?” The Prince’s cheeks were incredibly flushed, and his loose wild hair stuck to his forehead with sweat.
Thranduil walked towards a plate of bread, “I would say the fault of this spell lies from him dancing his heart away with Henior over here, rather than too much drink.”
At that statement Himeldir got a good look at his sibling, noting the similarly red face, and laughed. “Only you could get that elf on the dancefloor, huh? I wish I was there! What a sight we all missed.” Cries of agreement rang through the room.
Ialarwen suddenly appeared with a wet rag, wiping down a now silent Legolas’ face and neck. It was a bit of an ordeal, for the elf was near entirely limp. The smell of bread filled suddenly filled the air.
“Eat.”
Legolas whimpered at the sound of his father’s voice. “I don’t feel well.”
“You would feel better if you ate.”
“That makes no sense.”
Thranduil sighed, “I don’t need to make sense.” He said, as he split the bread into smaller pieces, and held one up to his son’s face. “Don’t say I need to feed it to you too, Legolas.”
Legolas opened his mouth in response.
No one could hold back their laughter, not even the King, who unceremoniously shoved the bread in his son’s mouth.
The singing in the other hall grew louder as Legolas slowly worked his way through the loaf of bread, as well as the singing in the feasting hall, too. For Henior and others were still full of drink, and had goaded their friends into light dance and song as their Prince was tended to. Stories were thrown left and right, and soon, a debate between the King and company began on who remembered the events of some particularly old mission better. Everybody seemed to have a different story, and was eager to defend their viewpoint. It was during this bickering that Legolas laid his head down on his arms with a groan, hair splayed around him.
“Still feeling ill, your Highness?” Himeldir asked.
“Yes.” The Prince muttered, half muffled by his arms. His father, still standing behind him, began to rub his back gently.
“Truly I cannot guess what those lads said to you to convince you to drink that last glass iôn-nin, you were already past your limit.”
“I don’t kiss and tell.”
The King did not react to the jest.
A clank was heard as Himeldir finished stirring his concoction and poured it into a glass.
Legolas leaned his head back, smacking the crown of it into Thranduil’s chest and looking up at his father, a bit green in the gills. “I think I’m going to be sick.” That got a reaction out of the King.
“Not on me!” He shouted, and whipped around to get some sort of bucket for his son.
A loud retch was heard as everyone sprang into motion. Legolas had chosen the floor as his target, and was near falling out of his chair. Erurlas quickly helped him onto his knees, as Henior slid over a half empty salad bowl. Ialarwen swiftly gathered the young elf’s hair into her hands, holding it back for him.
“Legolas do try to-” another retch and the sound of vomit hitting the floor cut him off. “...aim.” The King finished lamely.
Snickers rang out as the elves present watched the spectacle in grotesque interest, and chattered among themselves.
“You can’t fault the boy.” Henior said. “You should have seen the amount he drank. I would consider the fact that he is fully clothed a win.”
“And how much did he drink?” His brother asked.
“Just about as much as Thranduil did in Doriath that one-”
A stomp was heard. “We do not talk about that night.” Thranduil barked.
Laughter rang out as Henior and Himeldir immediately began talking about that night.
Ialarwen listened closely, she hadn’t heard this story before and was not going to miss out on it. She readjusted her grip on Legolas’s hair, gently stroking his head as his gagging slowed. She idly began to pick the leaves from his hair, why are these leaves in this mane of his? She wondered. She dug into his hair, parting it- and that’s when she saw it. A braid, a finely woven braid that began behind his ear, tucked away into the back of his neck. She examined it. Oh Gods. Oh Gods. Oh Gods! “An engagement braid?!” She cried out.
“An engagement braid?”
“The Prince is engaged?!”
“Oh Legolas!”
“What a splendid sight!”
“A What?” Thranduil growled.
The room went deathly quiet.
Oops.
“Um…” Ialarwen faltered, of course it would be her to announce this to the King. “I may perhaps be looking at this wrong, but-”
Thranduil swiftly walked over, carefully stepping over the fluids covering the floor, and examined the braid. “Legolas.” He said gently.
“Yes, Ada?” He said, quite pathetically.
“Would you care to tell me what elf braided this into your hair, hm?”
“I think I would rather have this conversation happen not over a pile of my own sick, Ada.”
“I think you would rather not have this conversation at all, with the way you’ve been hiding this…” His voice trailed off, and he looked over at Henior, who looked over at Himeldir, who looked over at Erurlas, who simply shrugged. Thranduil sighed. “Do bring me the tonic.” He said sharply. Idiots. Himeldir ran to do just that, lifting Legolas up to his chair and administering the medicine. It was simple enough that he could brew it without help of his sibling, and was confident in its healing abilities. This was a land of drinkers, and as head healer one very quickly became adept at brewing the nausea-easing hangover tonics.
The interrogation continued. “I am assuming this is someone you met on your trip?” Thranduil asked. “Oh goodness, is it an Imladris elf?”
His son scrunched his face, looking pained. “Ummm…”
Thranduil paused, realisation dawning on his face. “Oh Gods- a Galadhrim?!” He cried. Laughter and gasps echoed behind him. He took this moment to look at his son, to actually see him. He looked young, he looked more than pitiful- like how he did when he was grounded that one time, long ago now, as an elfling. Embarrassment touched his son’s eyes. Thranduil cupped his cheek, and grabbed the still damp rag that lay on the table, wiping his son’s brow. “You know what, Legolas? These are changed times, these are peaceful ones. I am at peace with whatever decision you have made for yourself. I want nothing but to see you healthy. I am pleased to know you have found a love, I am more pleased than you could ever know. All I long for in this life is to see you happy. Do tell me about the one that makes your heart smile, will you?”
His son hesitated. Thranduil looked at him. “Do not think that your proclivities are unknown to me iôn-nin , or to your friends and comrades that fill this room.” Chuckles bounced around. “Speak freely and with confidence Legolas. Long have I given up the unfair expectation of an heir from you, and the elves of this land are free to love how they please. Do then, tell me his name.”
“Gimli.”
“Gimli… I have not heard that name before. From what house does he hail? Gimli son of whom?”
“Glóin. Gimli… Son of Glóin.”
Thranduil seemed to completely freeze. Pausing mid wipe, his smile looking almost uncanny as his brain processed the information. Face still frozen, he spoke. “A dwarf?”
The room burst into noise. A laughter so loud it rivalled the noise of the festivities broke out.
“My Lord! I must say that out of every behaviour Legolas has shown forth yet, this is the most in character for him!” Henior said through pearls of laughter.
“He’s always had more outlandish tastes, I mean, look at how he drinks his wine, for goodness sake!” Said Galion.
“This is the most unsurprising surprising information I think I have ever heard.” Erurlas muttered, gobsmacked. “Truly this would be surprising for any other elf, but Legolas? It just makes sense.”
“Truly, it checks out my Lord.” Sputtered Iawalarn, still shocked that it was her that started this whole debacle.
“What an evening!” Cried out one of the students.
“How fairs Gimli’s family of the news?” Asked another.
“Ach! Do not even ask me that, for I have suffered under the complaints of many a dwarf and dwarrow for” he waved his hands wildly around his head “‘stealing away their most eligible bachelor.’” He quoted. Cheers rang out around the small room.
Legolas buried his head in hands. “You all are insufferable!” He tilted to the side a little, becoming limp once again. In all the commotion Thranduil had forgotten his son was drunk. He stood up, gathering him in his arms and leading him to the door swiftly before his son fully lost his feet. “I think it's time for bed for you, hm Legolas?” He said sharply.
The chatter continued as they reached the door.
“You must admit this is most politically fortuitous!” Thranduil’s advisor shouted out. He slammed the door shut, and off father and son went.
“Grab the knob Legolas.”
“The knob?”
“Yes the knob! I have my hands full of elf, I cannot reach it.” On a good day Thranduil could support his son with ease and open the door, but right now, the King was feeling his drinks from earlier.
Legolas opened the door and they both stumbled inside.
Thranduil was pleasantly surprised to see night clothes laid out for his son upon his bed, and pulled out a comb from the desk he had sat at just hours earlier.
When he turned around his son was seated comfortably at the edge of the bed, staring out the window. Thranduil sat behind him and began to comb his hair gently; starting from the bottom to the top, and slowly working his way through every knot. A few leaves came out here and there. He let silence take hold of the room, the King was upset at the information he received earlier, but he meant what he said. Now more than ever it was important to see his son happy, and he did not want to lose his son over choice of lover. Thranduil had already learned his lesson on just how easy it is to lose his son. The memory of Tariel invaded his mind. They could discuss this in the morning. For now, he simply brushed his child’s hair, and found nostalgia biting at his chest yet again. He remembered the hours he would spend brushing his son’s hair when he was but an elfing. He was far too energetic to sit still, and would always bob around, and talk his ear off about his day. Well, in Legolas’ particularly young years, that was. Once he got a little older, after certain events, father and son found themselves having more nights like these. Where Thranduil brushed his son’s hair calmly, and his son stared a dead man’s gaze out the window.
“Ada.”
Thranduil jumped at the broken silence.
“Yes, Ion-nin?”
“I hear the sea.”
Thranduil’s heart sunk. He instantly sobered.
Emotion choked Legolas’ voice. The calmness in the room spurred him to talk. “I hear the sea Ada , I hear the gulls. No matter where I go, no matter how far from the coast I travel. The sounds of the ocean fill my very heart. They have torn my love from the woods.”
Thranduil pulled back, but Legolas remained firmly facing away from his father, wringing his hands till they were red. “It's unfair. I fought my battle. I completed my duty. I did everything I was supposed to. And yet the gods decide I am not worthy to live in peace, in the lands I have spent my whole life fighting for. It is not fair. I did everything right .” His son’s voice broke at the last word, tears finally erupting from him.
“Memory is punishment, Ada. I have died for the smallest things, and nothing washes off. I wish I could talk about what I have seen, what I have felt, without feeling how much it hurt. My memories are a wound that reopen the moment I speak of them. They haunt me. I cannot speak of what I have seen even in whispers.”
Legolas turned around. “I was the most terrified I had been in my life Ada , when I felt the heat of the Balrog of Moria.”
Thranduil’s eyes turned into saucers, and once again he realised just how close he was to losing his son, he desperately reached out for his face, and cradled it in his hands. “I was so scared. I was scared. I was so scared. ” He sobbed. “And I didn’t think anyone else could understand that fear, a fear so true it was as if every particle that makes up my body was yelling at me to run. ‘Run from this monster from your childhood stories,' they said, ‘ Run from the destroyer of your kind!’ I looked over, and I saw that same fear in his eyes. He was just as scared as I. He understood. It made me brave. And we lived to see another day.”
“ Ada. If only you knew how he speaks, for from his mouth comes the most beautiful of scripture. Poetry from the most revered of poets could not top the way his words sound. He can say the most sour of statement, and it would come out like honey- rich and warm and sweet and sticky. It sticks in your mind. One cannot forget a compliment given to them by Gimli, the silver tongued dwarf. Not even the Lady Galadriel.”
"When I first heard the cry of the gulls, it hit me like the sharpest orc blade through my heart. And infected me with its poison. The world lost its saturation, I lost my joy.” Legolas sniffled. “At that point, I didn’t think anything could ever keep me in these lands, despite how badly I wanted to stay, despite the mission I swore to complete.” He smiled. “Gimli made the choice simple.” He said simply.
Legolas swayed, and his father gently laid him down.
“He comforts me.” And in those three words, Thranduil knew.
He carefully wiped his son's tears, and tucked him in, exactly how he did when he was an elfing.
“I don’t think I’ve ever known peace my whole life, Ada. Now that I have it, I don’t want to lose it. I lay in fear everyday that something will take this victory from me. I listen for the call of orcs or gulls in my every waking moment. But he comforts me, he makes me brave.” Legolas began to trail off, finally succumbing to the fatigue of the drink as his father began to speak softly whatever came to mind, to cover the noise of the sea.
“Your Naneth liked sweet things as well, you know.” He whispered, tucking his son’s hair behind his ear. “She would add extra sugar to every recipe, extra fruit to every pie…” He kissed his son's forehead “Extra berries to every drink.”
Thranduil stayed until his son was deep in sleep, stayed until the dead of night hit. A light knock shook him out of his thoughts. Galion was there, with a tonic for the Prince. He looked surprised to see the King. Without a word, Thranduil stood, and made way to his chambers. He wondered if his son would even remember the conversation, come morning.