Disclaimer: We don't own LOTR, or any of its characters. Legolas: what the hell is this? Another stupid story ripping my dignity to shreds? TICS: I wrote this in response to Southerngirl's challenge. The challenge states that I would need to write a ficlet using the words vertigo, enormous, and hedgehog. Legolas: Nowhere in that description does it mention having to use me. TICS: No - that was my idea. Legolas: Why? Why can't you pick on someone else for a change? TICS: 'Cause you're too easy

Challenge Fic - Enormous, Vertigo, and Hedgehog

Why Legolas Hates Mondays

Sunlight streamed in through the windows of Legolas' bedroom, causing the Prince to stir from his slumber. He tried rolling over and burying his face in the pillow, but it was of no use - he was awake, for better or worse.

Sliding his legs over the side of the bed, he sat up, rubbing his hands over his eyes. He bent down, running his hand underneath the pallet, looking for his slippers. Dragging them out from under his bed, he slipped his feet into them, and stood up, absently scratching his butt, as he walked over to the corner of the room to use the chamber pot.

Sighing, he stepped over to the dressing table that held a pitcher of water and basin, peering into the reflective glass that hung on the wall above it. He winced, seeing his reflection. That lovely head of hair that he was renown for stuck out in every which direction, ratted like a bird's nest, and his wonderful sapphire blue eyes were bloodshot and puffy. He looked like crap.

Splashing some water on his face, he picked up his brush and tried to make a semblance of order out of the mass of tangles on his head. The brush got stuck in the briar patch he called hair, hanging there, swinging from the side of his head and no amount of pulling would release it. He had no choice but to leave it there for the moment, unless he wanted to pull his hair out by roots along with it.

He walked next to his wardrobe, opening the door and rifling through the garments that hung inside. His favorite jerkin was missing, evidently still in the wash from a few days ago. He held up his other two choices - a faded, pea green jerkin that had seen better days, and a blue jerkin that had an enormous hole under the right arm. Neither choice appealed to him, but, selecting what he felt was the least of two evils, he slipped into the faded pea green jerkin. He knew the color would make him look sallow, but the hole would have been worse.

Leggings were another problem - there weren't any in the wardrobe. They were lying on the floor of his bedroom in a heap. He had forgotten to send them down to the laundry again. He had his formal leggings - the ones that matched the silver tunic he wore to state dinners, but he couldn't very well use those for everyday use. Besides, if he wore them, they would need to be washed, and then they wouldn't exactly match the tunic anymore.

He'd need to run to his father's chambers and borrow a pair of leggings. Pulling the pea green jerkin on over his head, he tugged it as far down on his hips as it would go. It covered the essentials - but barely.

Peeking out of the door, he looked to make sure no one was in the hallway. Quickly, he stepped out of his room and made his way to his father's chambers. Before he could knock on the door, a voice called out to him.

"Legolas? Son, what are you doing? Do you realize that you've forgotten your leggings? Againand what is that thing hanging from the side of your head?"

Legolas sighed. "Morning, Ada. I don't have any clean leggings, and was going to borrow a pair of yours. My brush is stuck to the side of my head, and I'll probably need to cut it out."

"Legolas, reallyyou're my son and a Prince - you must learn to have a bit more decorum when roaming about the halls. What if one of the maids saw you?"

"She'd probably either start laughing or chasing me - it's happened before, Ada."

Thranduil frowned, looking at the brush hanging just behind Legolas' left ear. Taking hold of it, he said, "Let me see if I can get it loose - you don't want to have to cut it out if you don't have to." Thranduil pulled gently on the brush at first, but meeting with resistance, began to tug harder and harder, until he was pulling Legolas in circles around the hall by the hair.

"ADA! Stop! You're killing me!"

Thranduil let go of the brush, and Legolas promptly fell over on his rear, holding his head with his hands.

"Are you all right, son?"

"A little vertigo, is all, Adayou made me dizzy."

"You'll have to cut it out, regrettably. Save the hair, though - we can probably auction if off at the next MidSummer Festival."

Legolas rolled his eyes at his father, then stood and opened the door to the King's chambers. He ruffled through the many sets of clothing that hung in Thranduil's wardrobe, finally selecting a plain white pair of leggings to wear for the day.

Finally dressed, he made his way to the kitchens for breakfast. The cook was standing near the fireplace, stirring a huge black kettle that hung over the flames with an equally huge wooden spoon.

"Good morning, Your Highness," the cook smiled, holding up the spoon for Legolas to take a taste. "Would you care to taste this? It's a new recipe that I got from the cook in Rivendellthis is Elrond's favorite, supposedly."

Legolas tentatively sipped at the brownish goo at the end of the spoon. He immediately spit it out, covering his mouth with his hand.
"What in Arda is that?" He asked through his fingers, "it's awful! It tastes like old shoes!"

"Hedgehog surprisebut perhaps it is one those dishes that you need to acquire a taste for" the cook said sheepishly, wiping the spat out chunk of hedgehog from her apron.

"Why would anyone wish to acquire a taste for that? I'll just grab a piece of lembas and be on my way," Legolas said, backing away from the cook and the offending meal in the pot.

On the way out of the kitchen, he grabbed a sharp knife, and cut the brush out of his hair. Staring at the clump of golden hair wrapped firmly around the brush's bristles, he sighed, thinking of how long it would take before his hair would be one length again. "It's going to be a bitch to braid now," he thought, thinking that this morning had to be one of the worst he could remember in a long time.

"I really hate Mondays," he said to himself, picking up a piece of lembas from the kitchen table and walking out the door.

The cook didn't have the heart to tell him that his lovely white leggings had split right down the seam, leaving a gaping hole. He'd find out soon enough, she supposed.