Legolas left the bewildered Wolf inside his room and made his way down the hallways once again until he reached the kitchen. It was dark inside, but Legolas did not bother to light the lamps. Instead, he lit only the fire in the stone fireplace and set a kettle of water on the rack above the flames to heat. He sat down at the small, rectangular table across from the fireplace, mug in hand. For once, he was grateful for the blessed silence that filled the palace at night, interrupted only by the sounds of the crackling kindling. The tea kettle steamed and Legolas poured until his mug was filled.
There he sat in the quiet peace of the kitchen, sipping his drink silently. Over and over again he ran Wolf's story in his mind. There was little wonder why the poor elf was so skittish. Abused and raped, his life had been one torment after another. Legolas did not dare think how long that life had been. He had seen what damage the cruelty of the orcs could make and he shuttered to think of Wolf having lived through such an experience. And men too had had their way with Wolf, doing with him whatever suited them best at the moment. Legolas felt an anger rise within him the more he thought about it. His thoughts strayed briefly to the man that had brought Wolf to the Stewards in Gondor, but it seemed of little matter now. The man had been, after all, just a man and would have certainly been long dead.
Then there was the matter of the burn scar that the elf bore. Legolas had fought to remain as unaffected as possible, and he assumed that it had worked, for Wolf had not commented on his reaction as he gazed upon it. The prince sighed and placed his head in his hands. He could not be sure of what the scar was, but he had a decent guess. The wound was still red and fresh looking, which made Legolas assume that the orcs had tampered with the metal before branding Wolf thusly. However, he was no medical scholar and could not even guess as to what they had done to preserve it so freshly. He would have to ask his father or Kyno about that at some point, but not until he had more answers to his questions. Now he drained his cup as he thought fiercely of the design of the scar. It was twisted and malformed quiet badly to all but the extremely trained eye. As a hunter and warrior, Legolas' eyes could pick up those hidden details. But still, he could not force himself to believe what it was that he had seen in the burn. But there it was, clear to him as it would be to his father.
The burn was in the shape of the royal crest.
This unnerved Legolas perhaps even more than Wolf's shyness had. He did not know of any royals or palace officials that had ever gone missing. Certainly this had to be a mistake and his father would clear up any misunderstandings in the morning. In this fashion did Legolas try to ease his mind enough to allow himself some sleep, but the thoughts and the questions bore too heavily upon him and he passed the night in a fitful dream.
When the morning broke renewing the powder blue of the sky, Legolas rose from his bed. Looking over, he could see that Wolf was already awake, having been used to rising with the sun to begin on the day's chores.
"Here, take these," he offered to Wolf after rummaging around his closet for some clothing. It was true that Wolf was broader across the shoulders than Legolas was, but still he managed to find a few things that might reasonably fit him. Wolf nodded his appreciation. "Today we shall seek council with my father, King Thranduil," Legolas explained as he ducked behind a dressing screen and changed his clothing. "There are some riddles I do not understand. You have no need to fear him, for he is wise and kind."
Again Wolf nodded and soon the pair emerged from the room, ready to face Thranduil. They found the king once again in his study, not working quite yet, but rather finishing off his breakfast. He rose to greet them when he saw the two younger elves approaching the doorway.
"Good morning to you," he said cheerfully. "I do hope you are feeling much better." This was directed at Wolf, who nodded. "And your shoulder wound, I assume has healed, Legolas?"
"As good as new," came the reply. "Father, I have need to speak with you."
"Of course," said the king, closing the door behind them as they came in to sit in the armchairs that faced his desk and bookshelves. As for himself, he pulled up his own chair and faced it towards the other two. "Is there something wrong?"
"I spoke with Wolf last night and gathered much information about him. He is most definitely a Mirkwood elf, but still I do not know who he truly is," Legolas began. "If it might please you, Wolf, I ask that you recount your tale to my father."
Wolf looked hesitant at first, a combination of the painful memories and the inane fear of Thranduil, Legolas guessed. But he told his sad story from start to end, his voice wavering at times. When he was finished, as on the previous night, he showed his scars to verify his story.
"See there," said Legolas, as he traced his slender finger above the red scar. "It looks like your own crest." To prove his point, he picked up a letter sealed with the emblem of the crest and held it next to the scar for comparison. "And it may be worth mentioning, but he knew the lullaby you and mother used to sing to me when I was young."
Now Thranduil turned pale. "It cannot be," he said at last, more to himself than to anyone else. "It cannot be. Alandor?"