Summary: "You," the prince starts accusatorily, feeling a dark heat creeping up his cheeks whenever he looks at Lhiannah's slack posture and stupid, indifferent face, "are making me late."

Report Day

Lhiannah's forehead is bleeding from a wide gash cut into the flesh just above her blonde eyebrow, blood from the wound trickling down over the captain's right eye, running along her cheek and lip and chin before dripping off to the edge of her jaw to stain the white shoulder of her captain's coat crimson. Thranduil sees it when Lhiannah's tongue darts out to taste the fresh blood as it slides over her lip. It makes her grin as though the flavour pleases her.

Prince Thranduil makes a face when he witnesses the act; uncouth. How like Lhiannah.

He hopes she gives up soon but he knows that she will not. Instead, she stands, sturdy as ever, grinning stupidly at Thranduil and almost begging for more.

Thranduil takes a shaky breath and notes his own injuries with care in the meantime – both visible and invisible ones. He has at least one broken rib to deal with on one side of his body. He can also taste blood in the inside of his mouth from where he's cut his cheek open against his back teeth, and the shaky muscles in his arms can barely grip the hilt of his sword after Lhiannah's unwieldy blows had cut his stamina in half.

Such is, he supposes, the price of trying to deal with the captain's guard.

"I think that is enough!" Turion chimes in, looking bored as he moves between the two equally stubborn elves.

Lhiannah scoffs but lowers her sword, "What? Really?" she gives him a pointed look but Turion can tell that she is tremendous relieved that he intercepted.

Thranduil arches a brow and his smirk is instantly in place as he too notices her relieved expression.

Thranduil affects an officious air and looks down at this week's mountain of paperwork assigned to him by his father's councilmen. It is due in six hours. Said paperwork does not seem impressed with his officious manner, as it does not shrink back upon facing his wrath or deign to do itself for fear of possible reprisal.

A moment later, the elf prince catches himself on the edge of a sigh and deeply disturbed by the mere concept of letting such a distasteful act to be born from within himself, Thranduil forcibly drags it back into his chest and swallows it whole.

He has work to do.

He reaches forward and picks up the first report. When he does, his sleeve slides backwards on his wrist just a little, causing the material of his uniform to brush against the newly formed scab there. It itches.

His brow furrows; he may or may not glare.

The scab, unmoved by his hostility – much like the paperwork – continues to bother him, rather unapologetically.

Thranduil bites the inside of his cheek and continues to draw the report forward despite the discomfort, ignoring the scab because it is – to him – as comparatively distasteful as the sigh had been. One of his station does not itch.

That decided, he moves his hand toward the quill, sits up a little straighter in his chair and…

… cringes when the muscles in his back complain.

Vocally.

He surmises that the tumble he took yesterday afternoon with Lhiannah has something to do with it; his nose automatically wrinkles in annoyance when he thinks about the things he has been reduced to ever since his father approved her as the guard's captain.

The prince stops that line of thought when he realizes that he has let himself get distracted again. He has reports to do. Today is report day. He will get his reports done and in on time at all costs.

Which means he will ignore the itchy scabs on his wrist; he will pay no mind to the ache in his back either, or the sprain in his ankle, or the cut on his lip that throbs every now and again, whenever he frowns (which is more often than not.)

Most important of all, he will pay no mind to the migraine he gets, whenever he grits his teeth and thinks that yesterday Lhiannah really stepped her boundaries. How dare she speak to him like that? They were no longer bickering children. They were adults now and she owed him the slightest bit of respect.

But to stay on topic, all of that means nothing right now.

Because today is report day. He will think of nothing but reports.

Fifteen minutes later, Thranduil storms down the hallway, passing by a few guards that quickly scramble for cover. An upset Prince is just as bad as their Captain on a bad day.

Meanwhile, in her study, Lhiannah stretches languidly in her chair and takes a sip of her wine as Clodhiel changes the bandages on her wounds from yesterday for her and keeps talking on and on about her crush on Turion.

"More wine," is all Lhiannah has to say on the matter and Clodhiel smiles beatifically as she obliges her. Just as she is pouring more wine, Prince Thranduil makes it to the study. By forcibly kicking the door open.

Lhiannah blinks, "You are already back for mo…" she starts, but gets cut off because Thranduil is in no mood to hear her talk.

"You," the prince starts accusatorily, feeling a dark heat creeping up his cheeks whenever he looks at Lhiannah's slack posture and stupid, indifferent face, "are making me late."

Clodhiel turns to look at Lhiannah when she hears the accusation, clearly scandalized at this new (and exciting) development in her friend's life.

Lhiannah stares.

A moment.

And then, "Are you on your cycle?" she jests.

Without realizing he is doing it, Thranduil makes a completely undignified, slightly high-pitched sound of annoyance in the back of his throat. Far worse than any sigh could be.

The poor elf is promptly horrified at himself. And the fact that Lhiannah may be actually laughing at him.

Thranduil glowers; he wordlessly turns around and storms off.

That day is the first time in his entire life that he turns in a late report.

It is, however, not the last time either.

A/N: What do you guys think? Hate it? Love it? Delete it? Never write again? Review guys! Should I make a story with an actual plot? Tell me everything! Give me your sooooooul! :3

Thanks for reading!