Laer o Faen

Harlindon nu Lindon

In the decades since they had travelled east across the Great River many an arduous task had fallen to him as to all of them that had followed his father. Granted, their settlement with the Sylvan elves had been quickly established due to his father's already existing friendship with the woodland folk, and, soon after, the clans had taken Oropher as their lord and king, recognising, perhaps, his kinship with Thingol, however distant and tenuous. It had been an uncomfortable transition for Thranduil, at first, for although nobility was in his blood, to consider himself a prince was as yet foreign to him.

"The woodland is at rest, Adar," he answered, and slowly turned to face his father, taking in his appearance at a glance. The robes his father wore reflected the style of their woodland subjects, simple and functional – their function at present to hide the fact that beneath, his father wore the crafted armour of his Sindarin origins – and yet elegant. Thranduil knew that his father was not yet at ease, did not yet trust that peace had truly fallen upon Middle Earth, or if it had it was but temporary yet. It was a sentiment that, in spite of the evidence to the contrary, he shared. "There is nothing in the Kingdom that should not be for many leagues around."

Oropher inclined his head in acknowledgement of his words.

"Good then," he answered and gesture to the doorway behind him. "Walk with me. Attend me."

Thranduil gave a polite bow to his father, and then moved in his direction, following the older elf in through the ornate doorway of the fortress.

"Something troubles you," he guessed once they were alone. Oropher handed him a folded piece of parchment even as he answered.

"We are summoned to a council," he said.

"Where?" Thranduil asked, shaking open the letter with a frown, and reading exclaimed, "Eregion? By whom?"

He scanned the letter to the bottom, seeing there the cause of his father's irritation. The letter was signed by Celeborn and was a summons to all of the leaders and Elven lords that remained in Middle Earth.

"By what right and in whose name does he set such words and charge us all the appear at his behest," Oropher exploded, at last voicing his ire, and rounding on Thranduil as though he had born the unwelcome tidings. He flicked a hand out to tap the edge of the parchment, almost taking it from Thranduil's hand. "Does he think us all vassal lords to his great—?"

"Perhaps I should attend in your name – and to represent our Sylvan kin of Eryn Galen," Thranduil interrupted smoothly. He could not, at the time, explain why he had made the suggestion, for the journey was of many days, and would pass through territories now becoming settled by men – and therefore not entirely safe, but some impulse, drew the words from him.

"I am gratified to see we are of one mind in this," Oropher said, calm once more as they ascended the stair of the highest tower and emerged out onto the wide stone balcony atop it. As his father continued, Thranduil walked to the stone wall and leaned upon it, looking west. "It is in my mind, Ionen, that you should be the one to carry the voice of Greenwood's diplomacy between us, and others of our kin, for you are much alike to your mother in that regard."

Briefly, Thranduil looked back at his father at that, the mention of his mother drawing an ache from deep inside of him to settle in the frown upon his face.

"If such is your wish," he said after gazing long upon his father's face. "I will speak for Greenwood."

"It is my wish," his father said, and turning away from Thranduil started to return in the direction from which he had come. "Rest well this night. Needs be you must leave before first light in order to reach that peacock's court by the appointed hour, and I would not have you arrive late."