By Brin
Disclaimer: Don't own any characters mentioned in any of Tolkein's books, his songs, or anything like that.
Summary: Legolas wasn't always the noble, polite, agile, mirthful, and kind bow master that we all know and love…He had to learn to be like that. The hard way.
A/N: Movieverse.
Chapter 1: Destined for Discipline~#~#~#~#~#~#~#~#~#~#~#~#~#~#~#~#~#~#~#~
Young Legolas Greenleaf slouched in his chair as his professor droned on about the political history of Mirkwood. The restless prince's attention span had long burnt out and he had been staring outside at his father's archers practice on the range for hours now.
"Prince Legolas!" barked the teacher, snapping the young elf out of his reverie. "Pay attention!"
"I am a prince and I am to be spoken to as such," replied Legolas, sitting up. "My father will hear of your insolence."
"Your father has more urgent things on his mind than the complaints of a selfish little elf whom acts more like a dwarf than a prince! Now pay attention to your lessons!" snapped the professor.
"Lord Ravon, please, go easy on the boy," said a deep voice. "He has been bored enough by all the other scholars in Mirkwood."
Both elves turn to the door to see the training master and captain of the Mirkwood patrol, Lord Drago, standing in the door with his bow in hand. There was a sheen of sweat on his brow, showing that he had recently been practicing, and his blue eyes traveled from teacher to student with interest.
"Yes, Lord Drago, he has been 'bored,' as you put it, by every other scholar because none of them put up with him long enough to get through two lessons!" said Ravon, crossing his hands over his chest. "The boy needs discipline!"
"What the boy needs is a lesson that interests him. The great kings of Mirkwood does not qualify," reasoned Lord Drago.
"And how would you know?" asked the professor irritably. "As I recall, you never did learn your history, now did you Drago?"
Lord Drago ignored the professor and turned to Legolas. "I have been asked by the king to take you to the range and fit you with a bow. From now on, I am your professor."
Legolas's eyes lit up. "You mean I get to learn the bow?"
"Yes, that's exactly what I mean. Come along, boy, today we begin your training!"
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Legolas hopped from one foot to the other as Lord Drago went up and down the rows of bows, all neatly placed in a row against the wall. The craftself stood behind his counter, scribbling something down on piece of parchment.
"How about this one, Prince Legolas?" rumbled Drago, picking up a bow.
The young elf's eyes widened. The bow was huge, at least twice his size and as thick as his hand was long. "Isn't it a bit…large?" he ventured as Lord Drago handed it to him, the weight causing him to nearly topple over.
"You're a small lad and have years to grow, but I guess that one is too heavy for fair, untainted hands such as yours," he said, moving on.
Legolas deposited the bow on the ground and chased after the weapons master. "My hands are not 'fair and untainted!' Girls hands are as such! I have the hands of a warrior, not some senseless hobbit!"
"Prince Legolas!" roared Drago as he whirled around. "Do not rush upon yourself the horror and doubt of death!"
Legolas was dumbfounded. Professors had yelled at him before, but there was something about the flaming look in Drago's eyes that scared any rebuke from him. He just stood there, head hung low, hoping that he hadn't made a grave mistake by this entire ordeal.
"Now, hold such comments on your tongue and hope that my hand does not fly back and strike you across the face should you ever enrage me again," warned the master as he once again moved down the aisle.
Prince Legolas, still shocked that anyone would dare speak to him this way, flanked the training master like an obedient puppy.
"This one," said Drago, pulling out another bow, "is perfect." He handed it to the little elf and stepped back to assess the picture. "It suits you, young prince."
Legolas fingered the bow carefully. It was light, but not too much so, and a bit long, but he knew he would grow into it eventually. The bowstring was made of hair from the elves of Lothlorien; Legolas could tell by the shimmering color. Engraved on the bow were golden leaves intermixed with the symbol of Mirkwood. The wood was a deep red-brown color, polished to a shine. He smiled. "This is cool!"
Drago laughed. "Yes, 'cool,' Prince Legolas. Now for your first lesson."
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"Hold the bow in your left hand and pull the string taut with your right. Be careful of snapping yourself," instructed Lord Drago, demonstrating with his own bow, a heavy black metal one made many years ago when he fought against the Dark Lord Sauron alongside Lord Elrond. "Hold the arrow level." He let the arrow go and it hit the target dead center one hundred yards away.
Legolas fumbled with his bow, unable to hold the bow and the arrow in the proper place at the same time. The pressure on his arms caused by keeping the bowstring taut was making him grow fatigued, and sweat rolled down the side of his face. He was growing frustrated. "Lord Drago, the arrow doesn't stay still!"
Drago adjusted the arrow and stepped back. "Okay."
The young elf let the bowstring go and watched in dismay as his arrow flew a few feet then faltered and landed not three yards away. Adding to his distress, the bowstring snapped his hand and he cried out in pain. It felt like he had been whipped and a red line began to form across his knuckles.
"Bad start. Try again," said Lord Drago, handing the prince another arrow.
Legolas swatted the arrow away and crossed his arms over his chest angrily. "Not until you show me what you're doing that I am not! I should be an expert with the bow!"
Drago shook his head. "Patience, Prince. I can give you lessons and correct your mistakes but I cannot give you thousands of years of fighting and practicing."
"I wan to be an expert NOW," protested Legolas.
"Prince Legolas, remember the warning you were issued earlier!" said Drago, raising his voice a bit. "I do not want to strike you, but I will."
"You cannot strike me! I am royalty and my father will have you hanged!" shouted Legolas, throwing his bow down indignantly.
"Pick it up," ordered Drago silently.
"No!"
"I said, pick it up, child!"
Legolas glared at the bow master. "And I said no."
The look was promptly wiped from his face as Drago's large hand smacked him across the face with enough force to send the young elf reeling backward into the bushes in a very undignified manner.
"Prince Legolas, you have a lot to learn about how to live in this world. Lesson one: Do not enrage those most valuable to you," said Drago firmly before turning and walking away, leaving Legolas spitting leaves and twigs.
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Legolas sat in his bed, not yet dressed for the day, and stared at the ceiling. His knuckles were still stinging from the day before and it had taken hours soaking in the hot springs outside the city to wash the dirt and grime from his body after Drago had sent him to the ground with one hit. His mind drifted between utter fury at having been treated in such a way and humiliation at having been thrown into the bushes by the training master in front of his father's elite archers. They hadn't dared laugh, but it was hard to miss the amused smiles playing across their faces.
The door opened and King Thranduil entered.
"Father," said Legolas formally.
Without even bidding him a 'hello,' Thrandruil got right to the point: "Lord Drago tells me you quit the study of archery."
"Yes, I did," declared the prince. "He humiliated me in front of your elite."
"Well then, you'll just have to go back to your studies of history and other cultures," said the king. "I'll inform Professor Ravon that you will be returning to his class tomorrow morning." He got as far as the door, then turned around and said with a disappointed look in his eyes, "I knew you'd never amount to much as a soldier, or even be one for that matter. You just don't have the right spirit about you." He then turned and left, closing the door behind him.
Legolas stared at the door for a small eternity. Never be a soldier? Not the right 'spirit about him'? Legolas's blood boiled and he rose from his bed to get dressed. His father's disapproval was all the incentive he needed. "I'll show you, King Thranduil!"
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Lord Drago had just finished recruiting new archers when Legolas came into his office, bow in hand. He looked up at the young elf expectantly, not saying a word.
"I want to learn the bow," said Legolas, determinedly setting his jaw.
"But it is such a tiring art," mused Drago, leaning back in his chair. "And you snap your fingers and hurt your arms. You have already voiced your dislike of it."
Legolas walked forward so that he was right in front of Drago's desk. "My father thinks I will never amount to something as an archer. Please, show me the bow. I want to show him what I am."
Drago nodded knowingly. Legolas loved his father, but they had never had a very good father/son relationship. Thranduil was constantly away on business or partying with his social peers; leaving little time with Legolas. The only time Thranduil even acknowledged his son was when discussing possible marriages to Elven princesses or when Legolas did something wrong and a punishment was in order. Legolas wanted so bad to gain his father's attention in a positive way...
"Okay, here's the deal, Prince Legolas," said Drago casually. "If you can prove to me that you can handle the strain of elite archery training for one week, I will teach you the fine art of archery. But you must not whine, complain, or agitated."
Legolas nodded eagerly. "I agree! I agree! Let's be on with it now!"
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DAY 1
"See the target. Hold that image in your mind. Look down the shaft of your arrow and make sure it is going the right way," instructed Drago.
Legolas, sweat beads dribbling down his face, did what he
was told and then let go of the arrow. His arms were screaming in protest, but
he ignored them as he watched his arrow ricochet off the edge of the target—a
large wooden disc with red and white circles painted onto it—and land somewhere
in the grass.
"Good. You hit the target," said Drago, smiling as he handed the young prince some water. "It's progress from yesterday."
Legolas took a long drink, handed the water back to Drago, then looked at the target with a sigh. "What am I doing wrong?" he asked, trying to hide the irritation he was feeling but not succeeding very well.
"You're trying too hard, that's the problem," said the weapons master. "Try not to concentrate so hard on the bull's eye. Put all your feeling into just hitting the target."
DAY 2
Legolas's arrow flew across the field and implanted itself on the very bottom edge of the target. His blue eyes widened to the size of saucers and he dropped his bow and quiver, arrows spilling all over the place. "I…I hit it! Drago, I hit the target and it…it didn't bounce off or anything!"
Drago smiled. "So you did, young prince! Now try it with a real arrow."
Legolas scowled. Okay, so he had snapped one of his arrows in half and placed feathers on the end…but hey, at least he hit it, right? Right?!
DAY 3
Legolas yelped in pain as the bowstring snapped him in the face for the third time that day. He had red marks across both cheeks and now one over his eye. He was getting more than a little irritated.
Not to mention the fact that the elite archers were sniggering at him and whispering amongst themselves. He ignored them and fitted his bow again, his arms not shaking as badly as they had the first day, even though they were sore. He had just gotten the hang of holding the arrow level so that it didn't falter and drop to the ground two feet away from him without Drago's help. Drago had long since given up showing Legolas how to avoid the recoil and was sitting in a chair under a tree watching.
An elite archer shot his arrow and it hit the target dead-center. He laughed and looked over to Legolas, who was trying desperately to control his anger. The prince let his arrow fly and it hit the far right ring on the target for the second time that day (he had long since gotten over the glee of having actually hit the wooden target) but the bowstring once again hit him in the face.
The elite archers continued to laugh.
"What're you looking at?" growled the prince. They stopped laughing and went back to their practicing, knowing that if they made him too mad he could have his father punish them all.
Legolas silently slid over to them, making sure to walk right next to the bushes so his earth-colored robes camouflaged him as much as possible (even if his blonde hair stood out as bright as day). The archers, in their haste to make sure they didn't make him mad, didn't notice. The prince gathered some mud from a nearby puddle into his cupped hands and went over to the large quiver that all the elite used for practice. He dumped the mud down into it, then went back to his spot and resumed his practices.
After about three seconds, he heard the expected cry:
"WHAT THE HELL? WHO DID THIS?!"
Legolas hid his laughter as he watched the elite dump out the muddy quiver and moan and groan about how long it was going to take them to make new arrows.
DAY 4
Legolas sat down outside the archery range after five hours of practice, every muscle in his body aching. He removed his shirt and robes, discarding them on a rock as he rested against a boulder. There were red marks and bleeding blisters all over his arms, hands, and face, agitated by the constant beating the sun gave him. His long blonde hair was plastered to his back from sweat.
He wiped the from his hands blood on his trousers and stood. Three more days to go.
DAY 5
Legolas's arrow hit the target one ring closer to the middle than it had yesterday. He smiled briefly, then Drago handed him another arrow.
"Again. Closer this time."
"You are relentless, Drago! I have made more progress than most of your new recruits make in three weeks! Please, let me rest!" said the prince, swaying back and forth dizzily.
Lord Drago narrowed his eyes. "Prince Legolas, you promised me you would not whine or complain. You are wise and mature beyond your years, Legolas; do not make the mistake of going back on your word."
The young prince nodded and, with a heavy sigh, stood. "Again, then." He adjusted the bloody bandages covering his hands and accepted the next arrow.
DAY 6
Legolas heard the elite laughing once again as he made a poor shot. Irritated, he waited until they were all distracted, then turned and shot into the crowd. The arrow flew messily and almost hit the ground, but by some miracle, it flew far enough to hit one of the elite archers…
Right in the butt.
"YOOOOOWWW!!!" howled the archer, grabbing his backside and jumping about ten feet into the air. "What the hell?!" He started running around in circles. "Get it out! Get it out!"
The other elite archers began falling over themselves with laughter.
Legolas smiled to himself and resumed practicing.
DAY 7
Legolas collapsed on the ground after ten hours of intense training and vomited his meager breakfast into the bushes as the sun beat down on his bare, burnt back. For one week he had been tested by means of his patience, his temperament, and his physical ability…and he had passed. He had passed.
Drago smiled. "Prince Legolas, you have impressed me and the elite archers. Not only did you survive one week of elite training with no prior experience, but you single-handedly showed humiliation to an elite archer who needed it badly." He chuckled a bit at the memory of the chaos that had ensued when his captain had come rushing in with an arrow sticking out of his butt.
Legolas looked up at his training master and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "I told you I could do it."
TBC…
Up next: Girls, Greens, and Goblins
A/N: It gets better in the next chapters, I promise! Hang in there with me, PLEASE?!