"Be—" Firith began.
Tathor threw the ball, and Legolas smacked it with his stick as hard as he could, sending it ricocheting off the walls of his father's office, where, through a series of odd coincidences, they'd ended up playing their new game.
CRASH!
"—careful..." Firith groaned as the dust settled around the fallen shelf.
"Uh-oh," said Tathor.
. . . . . .
Legolas paced back and forth as Firith tried without success to piece various broken items back together; Tathor had been sent to make sure Thranduil wasn't returning early from watching military drills with Taensirion. "What do we do?!"
"Tell the truth?" Firith suggested.
"Do you have any idea what he would do to me?" Legolas threw his hands in the air. "I am supposed to be a prince, not a foolish elfling! He still reminds me of that time with the elk five hundred years ago, when we were only kids!" He fell to his knees. "Don't tell him, Firith, please, don't tell!"
"I feel like I should tell..."
"Don't. Please. Firith, please, he will kill me."
"I think that's probably an overstatement," his friend observed.
"Then he will forbid me from traveling to Lórien next summer." King Amroth had shrugged off their conflict during Legolas's first visit—they'd been drinking, after all—and their friendship had endured for more than a century now. "Please."
"If you're sure... But what're we going to do?"
"Maybe I can help?"
Their heads whipped toward the door. "Storm!" Legolas exclaimed, running over to greet his uncle. Storm still visited every few decades, staying unnoticed by all but a few elves.
"Carrying on your Nana's legacy, I see," Storm remarked, flipping back his hood; his hair was still cut unconventionally short, and his clothes weren't made of any fabric Legolas recognized. He winked at the guards down the hall—the guards! Legolas had forgotten about them—as he stepped inside, and Tathor followed him in excitedly. "Need some help?"
Legolas showed him the broken objects, which included a lamp—it luckily hadn't been lit—and an ink bottle that had shattered and spilled all over the floor. "We need to replace these before my Ada returns."
"Watch and learn, prince, watch and learn."
. . . . . .
Thranduil and Taensirion, plus a handful of guards, were on their way back to their offices when they heard a series of crashes and clangs. Thranduil's first reaction was to send a guard to check that no one was hurt, but Taensirion was already on his way in that direction and the king needed to talk with him about the drills they had watched, so he followed reluctantly. What they found was a pile of collapsed equipment, thankfully not including the workers who had been using it to smooth out the walls, as they were taking a break. As they were about to turn away, however, Taensirion sniffed the air and asked if anyone smelled smoke, and just then orange flickered around a spilled bucket of some sort of liquid and almost immediately spread through the debris.
Thranduil rubbed his forehead as elves began to shout in alarm. Why could he never leave elves alone for five minutes without a catastrophe?
. . . . . .
"You seem different," Legolas remarked as he and Storm, cloaked and hooded, watched the distraction from a distance; Firith was scrubbing away at the ink puddle on the office floor, while Tathor had been sent to purchase replacements for the broken items.
"Do I?"
"Every time you come, you're even more out of place. You move like a wild animal."
It bothered Storm when elves noticed things about him that he didn't. "I've been spending a lot of time in the wilds. C'mon, let's see how Firith's doing."
They returned to the office—passing between the amused guards, who were old friends of Storm's (well, more Sky's, really) and would keep quiet—and found Firith still scrubbing at an apparently clean floor, surrounded by broken items. "That looks good enough," Legolas told him.
"No, there's still a stain, see?" Firith pointed to a very faint dark patch and returned to his task, wetting his rag with a cleaning liquid for good measure.
Storm shrugged in response to the same gesture from Legolas, and began to scoop up broken bits of stuff using a dustpan also brought by Firith. As he dumped the third batch of debris into the box holding the cleaning supplies, Firith, who'd happened to look in the direction of the doorway, froze and gulped.
Thranduil, Storm thought—and so did Legolas, apparently, because he yelped and made as if to jump in front of the evidence—but it wasn't the king. It was Kimbrel.
"Thank goodness," Storm said, relieved.
Legolas and Firith paused in their panicking to look at him funny. So did Kimbrel, and she took a step away from the doorway, her body language sending the clear message that she was going to snitch on them to the first person she met. That probably meant her husband, whose office was just far enough away for the crash of a falling shelf not to be audible.
"Wait a minute, Kimbrel," Storm called. "We need your help."
She hovered at the door, suspicious but also curious. "I'm telling Alagon," she warned, but made no further move in that direction.
"Hold on a minute," he repeated. "Come in here."
She did. "You're not supposed to be here."
"I know. That's why I need you not to tell."
She fiddled with the bag that probably held Alagon's lunch. "I won't lie for you."
"We're not asking you to lie. Look, Kim—"
"Kimbrel."
"Right, sorry—we're just cleaning up a mess we made, no one needs to know about it, right? Don't bother Alagon."
She frowned at him. "Alagon would get you in trouble if he knew."
"Yes, he would. But if Alagon doesn't know, we'll clean this up and it'll be like it never happened, and everyone's happy. I'm sure it's not nearly as important as what he's working on."
She wasn't buying it. "Alagon says you deserve to get in trouble, for letting Sky die. I agree."
This was the part he wasn't sure would communicate. "Maybe I do. I messed up a lot. But, I'm trying to do better and redeem myself by helping Legolas; don't you think I deserve a second chance? For old times' sake?" He'd always been nice to her when she was young and followed Kilvara—and by extension, Storm, Sky, and Felrion—around.
Unexpectedly, something in his speech seemed to resonate with her. "You want a second chance?"
"I do. Please don't mess it up for us."
She stood there a moment, processing that thought, and then turned and walked out of the room.
"Wait—Kimbrel—"
She didn't stop, and he slipped out after her, Legolas following along. "I thought playing it down would work," he confessed in a whisper as they eavesdropped outside Alagon's office door.
"I brought you lunch," Kimbrel said inside.
Storm imagined Alagon glancing up briefly before returning to his usual pile of documents with red ink scrawled all over them. "Thank you," he heard the advisor say, not as brusquely as he might've expected.
A pause.
"Was there something else?" Alagon asked, but then he did something Storm hadn't known him to do before: he rephrased his curt inquiry and spoke less formally. "...What do you need?"
Storm was surprised enough he forgot to wince at first. I should get out of here, he thought.
"Oh—Nothing. I won't bother you anymore." Kimbrel made to leave, and Storm and Legolas shrunk back into the shadows behind the door.
She was halfway out the door before Alagon spoke. "Kimbrel?"
"Yes?"
"Tell me." Then, as if to apologize for ordering her around, "Taensirion believes we ought to tell each other everything... is all."
Did Alagon just sound unsure?
"I-I was hoping you could come home early. I thought we could have a picnic... if you wanted to, I mean. I know it's silly."
There was the sound of papers flipping, a long, long pause, and then scratching. "There," Alagon sighed, sounding defeated. "I have freed up my evening." The sentiment you'd better really enjoy this picnic could be easily inferred.
"Thank you!" Kimbrel was thrilled. "I'll go make dinner!" She whisked past Storm and Legolas, not even glancing in their direction or into the king's office, and there was a bounce in her step.
That's new, Storm thought, but he wasn't going to question their good luck.
. . . . . .
"I do not want to know."
"But my lord—"
"I. Do not. Want to know."
The chemicals expert, who had been about to tell Thranduil that the liquid which had caught fire was not normally flammable, decided to file his suspicion of sabotage with one of the advisors later—perhaps Alagon, who was prompt about investigating potential threats. "Of course."
As that elf went to gather up his crew, Taensirion joined the king. "Did you see Tathor sneak past?"
"I did."
"Are we going to wonder why he had a large bag and looked as if he had committed murder?"
"We are not."
"Understood."
. . . . . .
"They're coming!" Tathor hissed.
Storm punched Legolas's shoulder. "I'm going to visit Felrion and Kilvara. See you tonight."
"Are you staying for a while this time?"
"I could probably manage a few weeks."
"Weeks?" Legolas pouted.
"Sorry, nephew... got things to do." Like teasing Flint, and getting ready for winter. "Tonight," he repeated, and ducked out the door. The younger elves followed after putting the last few touches on the replaced shelf.
Thranduil and Taensirion followed a few moments later, leaving the guards outside, and Taensirion glanced around to make sure everything was intact.
"I see nothing out of its place," declared Thranduil without even looking. "Sit down before you find otherwise."
Taensirion did. "If you would like my advice, I wonder if some time off would benefit you," he remarked mildly.
"At what time would it not?"
"Fair point, but even so."
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