Kingsfoil [Thranduil] LOTR

Savage

Three Hundred Years Ago...

Thranduil drummed his fingers on the top of his desk while he listened to Galadhor drone on about his reports for the new shipment schedules. Ah, it was times like these that he wished that Legolas still managed the books for the kingdom; then he could have foisted the thankless job off on his son. The Elvenking straightened in his chair as Galadhor finished the last item on the list.

"Everything seems to be in order," Thranduil said, his eyes drifting toward the door. Legolas stood there, smirking. "Then let us proceed with those adjustments for the next season."

"Yes, your majesty," Galadhor agreed, and quit the room readily, and the thought occurred to Thranduil that his chief of the household had been wishing for the meeting's end as much as himself!

Legolas entered without invitation or prompting and settled in the chair nearest his father's desk. He waited while Thranduil took the opportunity to pour himself a drink and waved away his father's wordless invitation to join him in a glass of wine.

"I hate depriving you of all the merriment that can be had in the keeping of the court's finances," Thranduil teased, taking a slow sip. "Are you sure you do not want to give up your position in the Forest Guard and return to your old bookkeeping days?"

But Legolas only looked thoughtful, and then much to his father's surprise, reached for the unused glass and poured himself half a glass.

"Today was not a good day, Father," Legolas told him, looking down at his glass.

Thranduil nodded grimly. "I saw Beriadan earlier. He said you ran into a small group of orcs, cutting across the old Forest Road. He told me you finished them off easily, without injury."

Legolas brought his glass to his lips and then sat it down with a sigh. "Narylfiel was on the patrol with us. She killed two on her own, but because of the undergrowth of the area, we had to kill them in close combat, not with arrows."

Thranduil was beginning to understand what troubled his son. Legolas was fiercely protective of his wife's little sister. He took another slow sip of his wine.

"We have all been in that moment," Thranduil counseled, not unkindly. "The first kill at the end of your blade is one you never forget," he cleared his throat, "even after a thousand winters."

Legolas nodded almost imperceptibly as he met his father's eyes. "I found her afterward. She was just standing there, sort of dazed, and I realized she had black blood, all the way up from her hand to her elbow. It must have been a messy kill."

Thranduil grimaced. His poor naurreniel. "She is lucky to have you as her Captain, son. I am sure you said the right words in the moment."

"I don't know," said Legolas, catching his eyes again. "She was still fairly upset when I left her with her sister. She did not even finish her dinner." He sat his glass on Thranduil's desk, stood. "It would be nice if you went and talked to her."

"Nice," Thranduil repeated the word like it was a foreign concept. "I am the king of this realm," he countered. "I cannot go coddling every guard who gets a little sad at beheading some orcs."

"Of course, father," Legolas murmured as he took his leave. He did not look back.

Thranduil eyed his son's untouched glass of wine. Wasteful, really. He dumped the contents into his own glass. He took a sip and found it bitter in his mouth, as he reluctantly recalled his own first kill with perfect clarity. Nice, indeed.

The Elvenking left his glass—still half full, a rare occurrence, mind you!— on his desk and let Galion know that he was finished with meetings, audiences, or otherwise for the day. For some reason instead of going straight to his chambers as planned, Thranduil's treacherous feet took him down to the stables.