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

Chapter 64: Siblings

Legolas sat in Amareth's tent, alone for the first time that day and his mind wandered, thinking on the events of that morning.

Amareth and Marhen had fussed over him and he had let them, and he smiled as he remembered their soft scolding.

Later, Ram en' Ondo had arrived with his chest of belongings from the fortress, amongst them, the attire that had been designed for him in Imladris. The Silvan seamstress had beamed in satisfied delight, and claimed she would make only cursory additions for the work was near perfect, she had said in admiration - even the colour. She had then taken his measurements and all in all, it had been a surprisingly innocuous experience.

He could hear the woodland fiddles and flutes in the distance, rehearsing for tomorrow's event and for the first time perhaps, he got a sense of the magnitude of it all. There were hundreds of artists, most of them fiddlers, percussionists, singers and dancers and even the civilians were practising their most prized dances, the ones that had not been seen at the fortress for centuries.

The camp itself was filling out, with elves come from all corners of the forest of the forest, even from the most distant settlements. Other dignitaries were arriving at the fortress too, making their way necessarily through the Silvan camp.

The buzz of excitement was thick, tangible almost, and a pang of anxiety slammed into him and he closed his eyes to steady himself.

"Legolas?" came the deep voice of Erthoron who was ducking into the tent, along with Narosén, Golloron and Lorthil, books in hand and scrolls dancing around in their arms.

He simply shook his head with a tense smile, and then moved over to the hearth to prepare tea. By the looks of things, they would be cooped up for the rest of the morning at least, and so, when the water was done, he turned and placed the pot upon the table and sat. He knew Narosén liked to pour tea and beg blessings, and so Legolas left the red-headed Silvan to his strange ways and set his eyes upon Erthoron, who he knew would be the first to speak.

But rather than speak, the Silvan leader opened a book and set it before Legolas, before opening another and doing the same. On both pages sat the illustration of the warlord and Legolas tried, and failed, to hide his shock. He had seen another illustration, the one that had been presented during the Permanent Council meeting, but this looked nothing like it.

"This," pointed Erthoron, "is the ceremonial attire of the Warlord, Legolas.

"You want me to look like this?" Erthoron I can't, I..."

"Legolas - what is the problem? It will suit you well, you must not be ashamed," said the elf kindly.

"It is not a question of being ashamed, Erthoron, I am Silvan," he said, as if that was enough explanation to prove his point, "but the Sindar are not accustomed, and I am the son of the king, I will it or not."

"Yes - but they are the minority, and we are the majority - why should we change our customs because a small part of society does not approve of them?"

Legolas held his tongue for a while so that he could get his head around what he was seeing.

"He," he poked at the page, "is not wearing breeches..."

"No - the Silvans never did, for many years..."

"You want me to dance in that? The reels and the jigs...?"

Golloron chuckled wildly, and then excused himself as he sipped on his hot tea.

"Our seamstress will make sure there are no surprises, Legolas. The point here," he said, resisting a smile himself, "is that the Warlord shows his strength in battle - his body and his attire are a statement of his purpose. This is reflected by showing the power of your legs, your arms, your chest.