Chapter 8: A Boon

Thranduil paced alone in his office, and those counted among the courtiers who knew him best appreciated the simple truth that when the King of the wood elves paced, one should give his office a wide berth.

Galadhor, the king's chief of staff, passed the Beriadan, the Captain of the Royal Guard on the way to the office, and with a glance down the hall, pulled the warrior aside.

"Captain, a weather report?" he asked, his voice barely audible.

The Captain's eyes drifted toward the door to Thranduil's office, and he hesitated for a moment. "Stormy," he whispered. "You had better not go in there right now."

Galadhor swallowed uncomfortably. In truth, he would rather be anywhere but heading to Thranduil's inner sanctum; however, the king had sent for him, and no one in the palace would refuse a summons from Thranduil.

The Captain gave Galadhor a sympathetic look and then hurried away; he knew better than to linger. Reluctantly the advisor crept to the door, and peered around the frame, only to have his worst fears confirmed.

Thranduil currently wielded one of his scepters like a club, and he strode back and forth across the room from his desk to the fireplace, alternating between white-knuckle gripping the decorative staff to slashing it through the air like a sword.

Galadhor tentatively knocked on the doorframe to announce his arrival. "Ahem, your Majesty?"

Thranduil stopped mid-swing and pivoted, pointing the scepter at Galadhor. "Ah, Galadhor. Finally, you honor me with your presence," he said. The king's voice had ever been known as being incredibly fair, melodic even. Only now, it sounded positively venomous.

Galadhor side-stepped into the room, his face pale and drawn at the king's serpentine tones. Stormy, indeed. This was out an outright blizzard.

The king continued, and Galadhor would later swear that he felt the temperature in the room drop with every icy word. "Galadhor," Thranduil said and then paused for effect, "where is my son? Where is Legolas?"

"Your majesty," stammered the advisor, "he left with your permission to visit one of the vineyards."

"My sources tell me he is not there. They say," Thranduil paused again and narrowed his eyes, "that there is no record of Legolas ever having arrived at the vineyard in question."

Galadhor unwittingly stepped backward. "I am sure there is a simple explanation for this, King Thranduil. I will see to the matter personally, until it is resolved to your satisfaction," the advisor said hastily.

Crack! Thranduil snapped his scepter against the sideboard table, making all the trinkets rattle. The king had officially lost his patience. "This is no lost casket of wine we speak of, Galadhor," he snapped. "This is the Crown Prince of the Woodland Realm!"

The poor advisor's voice was shaky now; at best, his only possible saving move was a quick exit.

"Yes, of course, Your Majesty. I will check the ledgers and send out a detail from the Royal Guard," Galadhor assured his lord, before hastily bowing and darting out the door.

Thranduil slumped against the decorative table as soon as his advisor left and pressed his long, elegant fingers against his temple, which had begun to throb; in a single fluid motion, he pulled off his crown and flung it aside. He rubbed the side of his forehead, and then began to pace again, hoping the movement would help clear his thoughts.

Although being a good sort and exceedingly loyal, Galadhor could also be shortsighted to a fault. Clearly, Legolas did not want to be found. Did he need to spell it out to Galadhor for him to see it? His son must have falsified the court ledgers, and then he purposefully evaded the two guards that Thranduil had tailing Legolas for protection.

And the more important question was, the one Thranduil feared asking and dreaded the answer even more—if Legolas did not want to be found, then where was he?


The Crown Prince of the Woodland Realm crouched upon a tree branch in the middle of perhaps the worst downpour in the history of Arda. Disgruntled lines marred his usually serene countenance. Legolas was most unhappy. His tunic reeked of orc blood, everything he owned was probably soaking wet from the rain, and his companion, the adorable Thaliniel, had just completely defied and then belittled him. True, her assessment had only been an honest one, and perhaps that little irony rankled the most. She thought he was a nobody. He had purposefully led her to believe so, and now that she admonished him for trying to be more than his station, his feelings completely rebelled.

As he perched on one of the higher branches and watched her walk back to the tree, rain pouring off of her uncovered head, Legolas felt distinctly horrid. She must despise him. Truly! He despised himself. He huffed and turned around so she would not have to look at him. Or was it that he did not want to see the much-deserved condemnation in her eyes?

The sound of rustling told Legolas that she had climbed back into the tree. The shelter of the branches and thick leaves did much to allay the rain. Then the prince heard a sniffle, and then another one. He turned toward the sound only to catch Thaliniel trying to dab at her eyes with a dripping handkerchief.

"I am not crying, if you must know," she insisted weakly, "just..drying my face… from the rain."

If Legolas did not already feel bad enough for his hasty words to Thaliniel, he did now. He had been on the receiving end of his father's temper enough to appreciate the accompanying misery. And here he was watching her cry when he should have been acting as her protector.

"I am sorry," he said and then clarified, "for losing my temper earlier and yelling at you…and for what I said as well." He looked at her sheepishly and then left his branch to join her on the lower, wider one. Hesitantly, he took the handkerchief from her and carefully wiped away the smudges of dirt and the few tell-tale tracks of tears across her cheeks.

Thaliniel dabbed at her eyes again and offered him a small smile in return, which caught him completely off guard. Oh, that she might forgive him so easily.

She looked down, suddenly embarrassed either by the intensity of his gaze or his proximity, but Legolas guided her chin up with the tip of his finger.

"Please," he said softly, meeting her eyes. "Don't cry, Thaliniel." He smoothed his thumb across her cheek.

"You are far too charming for your own good," she chided him, catching the hand near her cheek with her own and then releasing it. He was so warm. "Do not think I am always so forgiving," she exclaimed and added roguishly, "but I am nothing if not practical. I am depending on you to help me find my sister!"

"We will set out as soon as the storm passes," Legolas assured her. "This has been a wretched start to our adventure, Thaliniel, but I promise I'll make it up to you."

"I think you owe me a boon," she said, her eyes brightening.

"A boon?"

"You know, like a favor," she answered. "In my family, when one of us, usually me or my sister, wronged one another, then we would owe the other person a boon. We would have to grant a favor."

Legolas' smile deepened, revealing a very fetching pair of dimples, and he swept his arm across his chest in an overly courtly bow, as courtly as possible when sitting on a tree branch, of course, "I would be honored to grant my lady a boon."

Thaliniel grinned at the obsequious gesture and then became serious. She thought for a moment as she wrung some of the water from the ends of her hair. She knew their friendship was still young and risked his ire by asking this of him. "Then my requested boon is this: I want you to tell me the truth about your father. Not now though," she added hastily, "but when you are ready to talk about him."

"The truth about my father?" repeated Legolas incredulously, and he could feel the tips of his ears start to burn. "Well…"

She looked at him squarely.

"Let's not speak of him now, Locien," she advised. "I understand how difficult a relationship with one's father can be, especially if yours is like mine and has all sorts of grand expectations concerning your future."

"You have no idea," Legolas murmured and then wisely changed the subject. "I think I'll see about changing this tunic, if you do not mind." He pushed himself up, and lithely stretched out his arm to snag his bag from the overhanging branch. Fortunately, his bag's seams were tight, and most of his provisions had remained dry. As he drew out his spare shirt, Legolas caught sight of Thaliniel's parchment, the very one that had captured his imagination and brought him out to her vineyard in the first place.

Remembering what she had written, the prince felt his cheeks flush again to feel her gaze upon him, and he shyly turned so his back was to her, quickly pulling his soiled tunic over his head and replacing it with his fresh one.

The whole transaction took less than a minute, and Thaliniel knew she could have and probably should have looked away, but somehow she just could not help herself. She glimpsed a stretch of finely corded muscle from his arms to a pair of broad shoulders, and in spite of herself she blushed. Her only source of comparison was her childhood friend Barathion's lanky frame, which had nothing on Legolas' honed physique. Her mouth felt dry. He definitely did more than just keep ledgers.

The prince turned around and smoothed the front of his clean tunic, and Thaliniel suddenly pretended to be very interested in the leather strap of her bag, hoping that her hair hid her burning cheeks from his sight. Legolas took his seat next to her once again, too absorbed in what he was about to tell her to pay attention to her sudden discomfort.

"Thaliniel," he began slowly. "You asked for the truth about my father, and I must confess that I have not been entirely honest with you…"


Oh, no! A shameless cliff hanger! What will the outcome of this conversation be? Will our prince finally get around to telling her the truth?

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