Disclaimer: Tolkien owns it all. I'm just having a little fun.
Author's Note: What do Thranduil and the wicked stepmother from Snow White have in common? Everything, apparently. So without further ado, ladies and gentlemen, here is the real reason why Legolas was sent to Rivendell.
The Fairest of Them All
Once upon a time, there was a woodland kingdom.
It was not a particularly great woodland kingdom, mainly because it was right in the middle of a spider-infested death trap, but those who visited Mirkwood could not deny that their elven wine was superb. After downing a barrel or two of this wine, most guests could be drunkenly convinced to agree that the king of Mirkwood was also superb.
This sentiment usually faded once the drinker became sober again. Not to say that there was anything wrong with King Thranduil. On the contrary, he was a very fabulous elf. He always wore the latest fashions and used L'Oreal, because he was worth it!
But everyone in Mirkwood agreed that his son Legolas was far more attractive.
Which did not sit well with Thranduil.
On a sunny afternoon when Legolas' hair was looking particularly golden and lustrous, Thranduil paced angrily across his bedchamber, furious that his son continuously outshone him. His frustration grew so great that he drew forth a magic mirror—not a silly birdbath like Galadriel's, but a shiny piece of glass in a silver frame—and set it on the shelf above his vanity table. Standing tall and proud before the glass, Thranduil demanded:
"Mirror, mirror, upon the shelf
Who do you think is the prettiest elf?"
Several agonizing seconds passed. At last a voice emerged from the mirror, speaking rather timidly. "Legolas."
Thranduil twitched. "What?"
The mirror grew a bit bolder. "Legolas."
This was not good enough for Thranduil. He hastily threw off his clothes and changed into a more fashionable outfit, then brushed out his hair exactly one hundred strokes. Feeling considerably more beautiful, he returned to the mirror and demanded:
"Mirror, mirror, in front of me
Who is the prettiest elf you see?"
The mirror sounded like it was snickering at him. "Legolas."
"Impossible!" cried Thranduil.
He washed his face, plucked his eyebrows, and re-braided his hair. Feeling refreshed, he met the mirror once more and declared:
"Mirror, mirror, I think you lie
Now tell me who's the prettiest guy."
But still the mirror replied," Legolas."
Enraged, Thranduil snatched up the mirror and shook it, his face turning an unpleasant shade of red. Furiously, he cried:
"Mirror, mirror, you silly glass
If I'm not the prettiest than you're an ass!"
The mirror was definitely snickering this time. "Sorry, buddy. It's still Legolas."
And that was the last thing that poor mirror ever said. Moments later, Thranduil hurled it at the wall, shattering every bit of glass in its frame. "Cheap piece of dwarf-made trash. I never should have let that merchant talk me into buying it!"
Just then a knock came at the door.
Thranduil swept open the door with an imperious hand, revealing the messenger who stood waiting in the hall.
The messenger bowed to his king. "I have important news, my lord."
Thranduil's eyes brightened hopefully. "Have I been declared the prettiest in all the land?"
"What? No, of course not—"
"Then be gone from my sight!"
"Wait, my lord!" cried the messenger, frantically waving his arms. "It's very important."
"More important than being the prettiest?"
The messenger sighed. "Remember when that Ranger named Strider came by and dropped off that Gollum creature? He told us to guard the little wretch?"
"Yes, yes. I remember. We're still babysitting that thing?"
"Well, uh… we were. Gollum may have kind of, sort of… escaped."
"Under whose watch?" demanded Thranduil. "How hard can it be to watch a demented little slimeball? This is outrageous! We'll have to send out search parties! Someone will have to tell Elrond—" Thranduil paused, suddenly overcome with a Brilliant Idea. A slow smirk spread across his face. "Yes. Someone will have to tell Elrond. In person."
"I'm willing to go, my lord," said the messenger. "I've made the journey to Rivendell before—"
"Nonsense," cut in Thranduil. "I can't possibly spare you. But I've got the perfect person in mind for this task. Tell my son Legolas to pack his bags immediately. He's off to Rivendell!"
As the messenger hurried away to find Legolas, Thranduil cast a triumphant smirk at the shattered pieces of glass on the floor. He couldn't help one final, victorious rhyme:
"Mirror, mirror, you've had your fun
But soon I'll be the prettiest one!"
END.