Chapter Text
Legolas had to wonder, as he glanced resignedly around at the assembled party, if it was somehow a requirement for elven lords to have both ego and a temper before they could become lords, or if it was something that just happened to develop over time once they came into power.
In Thranduil’s case, for instance, the things that could be classified under ‘People, Places, and Things That Exasperated and Annoyed His Father’ were extensive. He’d even attempted to compile a comprehensive list during a particularly lengthy recovery from an injury some years ago, although he had had to give it up before he’d finished. Giving it up had seemed a wise decision – the only decision –after witnessing the steadily darkening expression on his father’s face as he’d read it after retrieving it from Legolas’s hurried attempts to hide it after he had accidently left it out in the open during one of his father’s visits.
It turned out that his father strongly objected to being compared to a great big angry bird with its feathers all in a ruffle.
The recollection nearly made him laugh out loud, the only thing keeping him from chuckling aloud was the knowledge that laughing aloud at this point would focus all those simmering tempers upon himself. That idiotic minor lord who was one of those accompanying Lord Celeborn to this ill-fated meeting seemed particularly keen to find fault with everything the Greenwood delegation said and did.
Legolas was about to offer himself up on a silver platter to that greedy little weasel more fodder to sneer at, nor did he wish to give his father reason to doubt his decision to include Legolas in the delegation him by some breach of decorum.
And, as much as he occasionally enjoyed winding his father up into an impassioned tirade – Thranduil was magnificently eloquent and graceful even mid-rant – it was still captivating when that deceptively benign ire directed itself elsewhere.
Not, Legolas thought as he watch his father narrow in on that arrogant little spiderspawn, that he had ever received that particular combination of aggravated disgust being directed at Thranduil’s current source of ire.
“And what,” Thranduil said disdainfully, “Did you expect would happen? That the orcs would-”
Thranduil was cut off abruptly by said target, who attempted to defend his position by interrupting Thranduil midsentence with some non to subtle insults as to Greenwood’s military capability, deepening the insult by calling their kingdom the recent offensive appellation which had been circulating among the other elven realms, Mirkwood.
Legolas watched on in mix of surprised incredulity and perhaps just a bit of mean spirited glee as Thranduil cut the lord off with a cold sneer. Lord Elrond appeared just as incredulous as Legolas, and even Cirdan appeared mortified.
Lord Celeborn simply looked resigned. Had the lord actually chosen the idiot to accompany him, or had political matters outmaneuvered Lord Celeborn’s preference? Legolas was rather inclined to think he’d been outmaneuvered somehow, or else why bring someone who was so clearly incapable of not undermining Lord Celeborn’s position?
Either way, Legolas would be surprised if the minor lord lasted until the morning before Lord Celeborn sent him sulking back to their realm with his tail between his legs.
Legolas, much to his own disappointment, was unable to stay to watch the unfolding drama and whatever response his father would make to the insult that had been given, by one of Greenwood’s messengers coming to stand silently at the entrance.
Not an emergency then, as that would have had the messenger coming in to quietly hand whatever he brought to Legolas for him to peruse immediately rather than waiting at the door, but still important enough to require the sending of a messenger and the interruption of a council meeting.
Thranduil barely spared a glance for the messenger, any curiosity he may have had over the sudden appearance of a messenger rider concealed under his reserved decorum. His father merely waved a hand toward Legolas, excusing him from the meeting to take care of it.
Legolas stood up from his seat and – with a polite bow to the room – moved quietly to exit the meeting, his father’s coldly arrogant tones following him from the room as Thranduil.
The meeting had only continued for an hour after the missive had arrived, his father striding into their suite of rooms in a precise, controlled manner that aptly communicated his father’s continued annoyance to find Legolas sitting at Thranduil’s desk consulting his maps as he wrote out orders. Legolas hurriedly began to stand up as his father strode over to stand behind him, to vacate Thranduil’s chair, only to be stopped by a warm, firm hand brushing past his hair to press lightly to the back of his neck.
Legolas looked up at Thranduil, the difference in their heights further exaggerated by his being seated. Thranduil wasn’t looking at him, but instead focusing intently to read first the missive – set neatly to one side – then at first set of orders Legolas had already written out. Legolas sat quietly, hands gripping the edge of the desk as he scrutinized the carefully blank expression on his father’s face, attempting to ascertain his father’s thoughts as he read. Thranduil flicked his gaze briefly to Legolas’s before refocusing on reading what Legolas had written.
The hand on the back of his neck tightened briefly, Thranduil’s thumb rubbing lightly against the tense line of his neck as he said, “Relax, Legolas, my anger is not with you, quite the reverse.” The hand moved further up his neck, pressing down lightly. Legolas relaxed the muscles in his neck, allowing his head to drop forward slightly, yielding to the light pressure exerted by Thranduil’s fingertips even though it meant he could no longer see his father’s face. “You did well keeping your composure and calm during the meeting despite that mindless idiot’s needling. You could have perhaps said more when you have something to say instead of writing it down for me to see, but that, Legolas, will come with experience and confidence. You have the intelligence and keenness, the rest you can learn.”
Legolas nodded, lips tilting into a small grin of pleasure at the praise. Thranduil, while not exactly stingy with praise, certainly was not effusive or lavish with it. “Thank you, Ada,” he said softly, exerting his self-control to keep from squirming self-consciously under his father’s hold.
The hand on his neck gave an affectionate squeeze before releasing him, Thranduil leaning forward over him to tap his finger on the parchment Legolas had been working on when Thranduil had entered their suite. “Continue, Legolas. I will read it through once you have finished before it is sent out.”
Contrary to his words, Thranduil took hold of him once again, this time tilting his chin upwards to make Legolas meet his gaze. Legolas blinked in bemusement as his father scrutinized him closely. “Adar?”
Thranduil didn’t reply to his query, instead he nodded slightly, as if to himself, before releasing Legolas once again and stepping away to sideboard that held the suite’s collection of wine and other alcoholic beverages. Lord Elrond had graciously stocked their suite with a wide selection of various dark wines, evidently well familiar with his father’s preference – and his own – for wine over ale or spirits.
To Legolas’s surprise, Thranduil bypassed the red Legolas had opened earlier and instead unstoppered a glass bottle of a dark amber liquid of which Legolas was unfamiliar with. Judging by the pungent odor of alcohol that wafted over to where he was sitting was it was opened; Legolas judged that the liquid would readily catch fire should he attempt to light it. Not something one would drink for taste, then. “How badly did the talks go then?”
Thranduil snorted, a rare breech of poise that gave evidence of both the stress he was under and his ease with Legolas. “When do these talks ever go well? At least this time Celeborn attended the meeting rather than his lady. If only he’d left behind the other Noldor as well, then perhaps the meeting would have actually gone smoothly for once.” Thranduil brought his glass of strong smelling liquid over to one of the plush covered chairs in the room, where he lounged back, closing his eyes with a sigh.
“From what I remember, Lady Galadriel was not the one who diverted the meeting last time. Or at least, wasn’t the one who instigated the diversion,” Legolas hadn’t looked up from where he’d begun writing once more, but that didn’t stop him from feeling the hard stare his father gave him. “Pardon.”
Legolas heard Thranduil give a small sniff of masked amusement, “Diversion? Now that is an interesting euphemism for what happened. At least my remarks last time were subtle and still fell under the disguise of polite correctness, as well as being not unexpected. She could have ignored it. She simply chose not to. And we still eventually managed to get done what the meeting was set out to do. Even with a few diversions along the way. Celeborn’s person, on the other hand, I doubt even knows the meaning of subtly. He had all the finesse of an orc attempting to start a forest fire. He managed to inadvertently insult both Celeborn and Lord Elrond as well after you left. I don’t even think Lord Cirdan was happy with him by the end.”
“He did? How?” Legolas looked up from his papers over at Thranduil, eager to hear more.
“Oh, but I don’t wish to be a diversion from your work, my son. Continue working, perhaps we will continue talking about the council meeting over dinner,” Thranduil said, smug tone hidden underneath a deceptively placid veneer and a raised eyebrow.
Legolas scowled fiercely at him, which appeared to just amuse his father further, if the gleam in his eye was anything to go by. Legolas dropped the scowl, instead taking on an imploring look, “I can both listen and work. Was he asked to leave the meeting? Is there going to be another meeting?”
“Work, Legolas, no more questions. Should I have to go over there, I shall be most displeased,” Contrary to his words, the tone was fondly amused. However, despite the fondness Legolas could read in his tone, it also had the air of ‘I am king, and that is my final word on the subject.’
At least he was in a better mood than when he had first come into the room, Legolas thought as he turned back to focus on finishing the missives to send back to the Greenwood.
Nearly half an hour later, Legolas had to stop for a detour to Lord Elrond library to in search of an older set of maps that boasted a more complete depiction of the northern aspect of the Greenwood than the ones Lord Elrond had had supplied to their suite.
Legolas ended up bringing the whole crate of books back to their suite, much to the visible annoyance librarian who had helped him locate what he needed. The librarian hadn’t said anything to stop him though, evidently accepting Legolas’s assurance that he would bring back everything in as good a condition as he found it.
“Honestly, Adar, I thought he was going to make me sign out the books in blood before he would let me leave the library. Are librarians usually so possessive over their charges? The scholar in charge of our books certainly doesn’t eye me as if I were an angry little fire elemental bent on burning the place down,” Legolas said as he started to sort – carefully – through the books in the box, looking through the books to see which had the map with the section of land he needed.
“I can’t imagine why he would think that,” Thranduil’s said dryly, “Perhaps he heard you used a page from a book to start a fire once.”
“That was a necessary evil, given the situation. I was lucky to get a fire started at all, with all the rain. The page didn’t even have any writing on it!”
“Alas, dear son, I do not think that would matter. Best keep that story to yourself.”
Legolas scowled at his father, “I was not the one who brought it up, Ada.” Legolas moved to put one of the books back into the crate – a lengthy, overly verbose journal that seemed to contain early accounts of the elves that would later find themselves in and around the area now called the Greenwood. Although, between the wear on the pages and the horrible mixture of different long unused dialects and equally horrible handwriting, it could have been a book of recipes for stew for all Legolas could make of. “Instead, I think that inst-!” Legolas broke off with a string of expletives that had Thranduil rolling onto his feet in concern. Legolas waved him off. “I’m alright, I’m alright, the book just bit me. Must not have like all the talk about fire.”
Legolas showed his bleeding palm to his father – the sharp edge of the metal hinge had sliced into his hand which was now bleeding freely and dripping everywhere – as evidence, and he glanced around for something to wrap around it to stop the bleeding.
“I’ll get a piece of cloth to tie it with, stay there.”
“I’m dripping everywhere. I’m dripping on the books, I'm dripping on the some of the pages that fell out. Pretty sure you should just kill me now; I think you will offer me a kinder, quicker death than the librarian will.”
“I would help you, as you are my dearest son for whom I would do anything for, but then he would only have me to blame for the vandalism. I am afraid you are on your own. Where is that cloth, one would think that if Lord Elrond could supply us with enough wine to keep us inebriated for 3 weeks, he could supply us with enough cloth a wrap a hand up.”
“Nevermind, I will just rip off a part of my sleeve if you can help me tie it, just let me-” Legolas froze in the act of clearing a space on the desk, his face turning a pale chalk white as the room started spinning around him. He let out a panicked sounding cry as white hot pain started flowing up his hand where it was touching the corner of a piece of paper stenciled with different runes and old elvish lettering. While the parchment had seemed harmless sitting there on the desk, it made his skin crawl like he’d been dipped into a nest of spiders as he looked at it now. The blood that he’d accidently dripped onto the loose page was being absorbed, fading into the page as if it had never been there only to reappear even as Legolas watched in the form of some sort of blood red runic alphabet.
It only a couple loud heart beats for this to happen, enough time for Thranduil to cross the room and grab hold of him, eyes panicked and confused as he tried to ascertain what was wrong, his father’s mouth moving in words Legolas couldn’t hear past the roaring in his ears and the screaming in the room. Pain gripped at his heart, clenching and twisting up to his head and along his spine like pinpricks of fire then merging to flare through his whole body. He reached out to his father, turning into the fierce hold Thranduil had on him to curl his still bloody hand into the fabric of his father’s undershirt. Thranduil grabbed his wrist, holding it still so he could try tear away the parchment still stuck to his other hand despite Legolas’s frantic efforts to dislodge it.
The parchment flashed brightly when Thranduil touched, and then something seemed to appear through the pain, to wrap around his fëa and lodge itself there. The touch should have been intrusive, should have felt like a violation to feel something touch the very core of his being, but instead it felt like salvation as its strength was able to chase away and shield him from the pain. He leaned into it, not know what was happening but somehow recognizing the foreign presence as his father’s own fëa.
Legolas felt a fresh flush of horror as he suddenly realized that whatever the parchment was doing, it wasn’t attacking his hröa, his physical body, but instead was digging its claws into his fëa, tearing into it. He tried to pull back from the claws, clumsily attempting to use his newfound awareness of his fëa only to have it flex with him. Legolas felt the strength of his father’s fëa wrap tightly around his own, holding him as Thranduil brought the deep well of his own fëa, to bear on those claws. His fëa trembled, unable to move freely for the first time, and the realizing on an instinctive level, a tangible level, in a way he never had before the difference between his own mere hundreds of years to the vast stores of his father’s millenniums.
Legolas felt, horror creeping along with the realization, that even the strength of his father’s fëa was not enough to dislodge the claws, nor to even keep his own self safe from them. The claws tangled themselves in Thranduil’s fëa, and Legolas had the disconcerting experience of feeling his father’s own shock and horror and fear as if they were his own while still being decidedly foreign to himself.
Then the world blurred around him, finally falling into darkness as awareness left him and he knew no more.