The Silvan (Lord of the Rings-Legolas)[Wattys2016]

Chapter 39: Thranduilion

Four days had passed since that strange day when he had walked away from one life, and entered another, amidst strange dreams, sensations and revelations. Everything had changed and yet nothing at all, save for himself and the physical changes that would forever mark that moment in his life.

He had spoken to The Company, had explained everything that he could, and they had pledged their service - to him - as if he were a commander. But he wasn't.

So too, had he spoken with Elrond and his family, of the revelations the sentinel had relayed to him, with the unexpected result of confronting Elrohir with his trauma, the one that had hindered him for centuries. Legolas did not know if Elrond's son would thank him for that, indeed he had taken a slap across the face for his efforts.

A calloused hand slowly rose and touched his smarting cheek. He just hoped it didn't look too bad, for he had no wish to explain its origin to anyone today; there was too much to do.

With a heavy sigh, he turned to one side, facing now the slowly dawning day as he enumerated his duties. Breakfast with Glorfindel and therefore, with Elrond and his family, command training with The Company and the Noldor, twin blades with Glorfindel, and then, when day turned to evening and the evening meal was over, he would write the letters that would be taken to The Greenwood together with Elrond's official missives. There was no obligation of course, but therein lay Legolas' predicament; who to write to, what to say, where to begin!

It was an insurmountable task and he felt like laughing, it would be a bitter one though, born of utter frustration and a sense of magnitude that would not leave him. Amareth, Turion ... his father...

He turned to the small table beside his bed, his eyes landing heavily on the scroll that lay there. He reached for it and read the last line once more.

'... although we do not know each other, I hope that one day, we will...'

He breathed heavily once more. There was no denying it. The arrow was in his quiver now, and protocol screamed that he should answer. On the bright side, he had the whole day before him, and for the first time in four days, life did not seem so bad. Aye there was a distant weight in his mind about his eventual return home and everything that entailed, but it still seemed so far away, and there was so much still to achieve here.

Resolved to enjoy the rest of his time in the Valley, he rose, dressed, and tidied his hair as best he could. Cut it? came Elladan's tentative suggestion from the day before but nay - how could he? In Silvan culture, hair was an extremely important part of an elf. To cut it was near sacrilege, akin to scarring oneself purposefully. He shivered at the thought and resolved to get a handle on controlling the unruly mass.

As he looked at his reflection in the mirror, he realised that his cheekbone was going to cause him some strife though, for Elrohir's ring had cut it, leaving a small red line sitting over a purple bruise. His mind began to fumble for an explanation, but The Company would not be easy to convince, especially Idhrenohtar.

Straightening his green tunic, he left his room, bound for the dining halls, only to come face to face with a startled Elladan.