Shadow of Mirkwood

Sanity

Sanity and happiness are an impossible combination

Legolas roused from his uneasy slumber, his head throbbing with a dull ache that pulsed behind his temples. With a grimace, he shut his eyes against the harsh intrusion of light filtering through his eyelids, a crimson hue seeping into his vision.

After a moment, he cautiously reopened his eyes, squinting against the brightness as he struggled to adjust. He clutched at the bedclothes, seeking solace in their familiar embrace, and inhaled deeply, drawing in the crisp scent of cleanliness that surrounded him.

Time seemed to blur as he slowly rose from his bed, his muscles protesting with every movement. Yet, there was a grim satisfaction in the ache that permeated his limbs—a tangible reminder of his physical existence amidst the turmoil that plagued his mind.

With a determined resolve, Legolas made his way to the table where a water basin awaited. He splashed the icy liquid onto his face, the shock of cold awakening his senses with a jolt. Hastily, he dressed himself, his movements swift and purposeful as he prepared to face the challenges that lay ahead.

Pausing before the window, he caught sight of his reflection—a pale visage marred by dark circles beneath his eyes, lips tinged with a faint bluish hue. A bitter scoff escaped his lips as he regarded his reflection with disdain, a silent testament to the toll that recent events had taken upon him.

With one final glance, Legolas tore his gaze away from the reflection and strode resolutely from his chamber. The weight of responsibility hung heavy upon his shoulders, driving him forward with a sense of purpose as he made his way to confront his father.

As he strode through the opulent halls of the palace, the courtiers and attendants bowed low in deference, their eyes averted until he had passed, their attempts to curry favor with him palpable. He gritted his teeth in frustration at the display, his disdain for such empty gestures evident in his swift and purposeful stride.

Avoiding the lingering gazes of those who sought to engage him in idle conversation, Legolas pressed forward, focusing solely on his destination. He pushed open the ornate doors of the throne room, his steps echoing against the polished stone floors as he made his way toward the imposing figure seated upon the grand wooden throne.

The throne room was a testament to the splendor of elven craftsmanship, its intricate design reminiscent of the forest itself, with winding roots forming delicate bridges that spanned the chamber. Thranduil, resplendent in his regal attire, lounged casually upon his throne, a nonchalant air about him as he idly consumed an apple.

Legolas approached his father, his expression impassive yet betraying an undercurrent of simmering anger. Thranduil regarded his son with a raised eyebrow, his demeanor composed despite the tension that hung palpably in the air.

     "We need to talk," Legolas declared, his voice firm and unwavering.

Thranduil arched a brow in response to his son's demand, a wry smirk tugging at the corners of his lips as he took another leisurely bite of his apple.

     "Speak, my son," he replied casually, his tone laced with a hint of amusement. "No one here will interrupt."

     "The army is unraveling before our very eyes, Father," Legolas began, his tone edged with frustration. "The novices remain untrained, and even those who once stood as pillars of our defense now spend their days in drunken revelry."

Thranduil let out an exasperated sigh, rolling his eyes in response to his son's concerns. 

     "And what of it? We are not currently at war, Legolas. Let the soldiers enjoy some respite."