I wrote this in three days after being distracted for almost a month. Yay(?)

So I have been told multiple times that "Sindar" is plural and "Sinda" is the singular, and therefore I shall be doing that properly from now on, hopefully. I'll fix it in previous chapters someday.

Also, Chapter 50! Yay! (I'm very proud of myself.)

"Good morning, Ada!"

"Oh, look who is finally up," Thranduil mumbled into his cup of juice. His elfling was normally an early riser, but he had gotten to stay up late last night to watch an unexpected comet going by.

"What are you drinking?" Legolas hopped up onto an adjacent chair to peer suspiciously into the cup. "Is it wine? Galion said you cannot drink wine at breakfast anymore."

"I can drink whatever I want," said Thranduil, though he knew Galion was right; he had been drinking too much alcohol lately. "It is apple juice, elfling. Go get some of the muffins Galion made."

"I don't like muffins."

Funny, he certainly had last week. "Then go get some cereal."

Legolas looked almost shocked as he corrected his father. "Princes do not eat cereal, Ada."

"Oh really, and who told you that?"

"Um..."

"Cereal, muffins, or toast, you may choose, but you will eat one of them before I tell you what we are doing today," the king informed his son as the prince tried to come up with a logical argument. The child was stubborn about defending his arguments, just like his mother...

Do not think about that.

But he had successfully captured Legolas's attention. "You do not have to do king stuff today?"

"Only after dinner." He had briefly considered taking Legolas with him to his duties, but the prince was still too young to get much from such things. "Now go choose your breakfast, and remember to get something to drink." He propped his chin in his hand as the elfling scampered off; he had been trying all morning to think of an exciting new activity for the day, but perhaps he would have to settle for something unoriginal.

He was distracted by voices coming from the kitchen. "Splat! I shot you, Galion!"

Splat? Thranduil chuckled softly, wondering what his child was pretending to shoot the poor butler with. A tomato slingshot?

"Well then, I guess the little archer will be doing his own laundry now that I'm dead."

Little archer, hmm?

He wondered where he could find a small enough bow.

. . . . . .

"Is he old enough for this?" worried Galion as Thranduil showed Legolas how to wear a quiver full of miniature training arrows. Legolas had been thrilled when his father suggested an archery lesson; how many stories had the youngster heard about his mother's skill with a bow, after all?

Taensirion shrugged. "It will not hurt him any."

"A prince should start training young," said the fourth adult in the group—Alagon, who had come with a message for the king and ended up uncomfortably accepting an invitation to the young prince's first archery lesson.

Galion took a moment to appreciate the contrast between the two advisors standing next to him, who were almost polar opposites of each other—Taensirion, a Sinda in casual Silvan clothing despite his occupation, hair braided Silvan-style and an almost proud smile on his face as he watched his king and prince; and Alagon, a Silvan in sharp, formal Sindarin clothes, not robes but a leather outfit that almost counted as light armor, his blood-red hair loose like Thranduil's, and a look on his face suggesting he was bored out of his mind but desperately trying to hide it for the king's sake. From what the butler had heard, the two didn't agree much as far as policies for ruling went, either; they weren't enemies, but they apparently got on each other's nerves quite often.

Meanwhile, Thranduil was showing Legolas how to properly draw back the bowstring without hurting himself. "Now pull straight back, and pinch your shoulder blades together... Well done! Shall we try it with an arrow?"

Legolas nodded, turning a huge grin on the other elves to see if they were watching. Taensirion and Galion grinned back.

Thranduil, too, was enjoying this more than he enjoyed much of anything these days. "Now, Legolas, this bow is not very strong, so you will not be able to shoot very far yet," he warned his elfling as he showed him how to set the arrow against the bowstring. "How about you aim for that stump over there?"

Legolas nodded obediently.

"All right. Go for it."

Legolas gritted his teeth with intense concentration as he pulled the string back, his short arms trembling with the effort and his mind mostly focused on trying to keep the arrow from slipping out of place, but he just barely managed to get it drawn far enough. Twang.

Galion yelped and collided with Taensirion as he jumped out of the path of the arrow (which actually landed a few feet to the side). Apparently they were not as safe as they had thought in their spot a short distance to the royals' left, up on the wide trunk of a fallen tree.

"...Oops," said the crestfallen elfling as he lowered the bow, hanging his head.

"Well, perhaps he is not an archer like his mother," Alagon commented, causing him to be quickly shushed by the others.

But Thranduil was already holding out another arrow. "Try again."

Legolas did, and this time Thranduil helped steady the bow so it did not slip out of the elfling's grasp; the arrow landed in the grass, but much closer to the stump.

Thranduil nodded approvingly. "Again?"

Legolas's head went up and down like a hopping rabbit.

Alagon sighed and looked up through the branches, trying to figure out what time it was. He had more important things to get done today, after all.

Something pulled on his pant leg. "Hewwo."

There was an elfling sitting there, staring up at him with big green eyes. "Ah," said Alagon, attempting to free himself. "Whose is this?"

"Oh hello, Tathor," Taensirion greeted the toddler, scooping him up before Galion could. "Why, Alagon, have you not met Galion's son?"

"Erm..." Alagon had probably been introduced to the creature at some point, but such things did not usually stick in his memory.

"Tafor go to Awagon?" Tathor asked Taensirion.

Taensirion held out the elfling to his fellow advisor. "He wants you to hold him."

Alagon backed away several steps; the last thing he wanted was to hold a tiny elf that might bite him or start crying or something. "I... really do not like elflings. Please stop."

Tathor started to cry, and Taensirion and Galion looked at the red-haired elf as if he had just revealed himself to be a monster of the worst variety.

Twang.

"I did it!" Legolas's cheer distracted the two elfling-lovers from their horror. "I hit the stump, look!"

He had, though the arrow was not exactly in the center. Galion and Taensirion clapped and cheered, and Alagon forced what he hoped was a congratulatory smile.

"Again?" Legolas asked his father. "I want to be as good as Nana someday!"

Thranduil was glad his son was distracted as he worked to fix his expression.

. . . . . .

"Right arm a little higher, Legolas—keep that T-shape." Kilvara circled around behind Legolas as the elfling loosed three arrows toward the target set up two trees away; two hit near the middle of the target, and one near the edge, but he'd made a vast improvement in the last few months.

"Like this?"

"Perfect."

"He's holding the bow sideways again," Alagon complained.

"So did Sky and Storm, and so do I," Kilvara informed him. "Ooh, nice one, Legolas."

"And you gave all the soldiers your bad habit," Alagon grumbled. Kilvara glared at him, but Taensirion nodded and mouthed 'I know' from behind her.

"Oh, why are you even here?" Kilvara muttered back at him.

He pointed at Thranduil, who was watching his son's training with a small and slightly sad smile. "All I want is permission to switch two rooms in the palace to make things more efficient; I do not know why he keeps insisting I watch his offspring miss a target!" The irritated advisor stomped off, muttering to himself.

"Someone is in a mood today," Taensirion remarked under his breath, shaking his head in amusement.

Kilvara rolled her eyes at her brother-in-law's behavior. "Someone is always in a mood."

. . . . . .

"Go Legolas! Yay!" The small pinkish-haired elfling jumped up and down, cheering.

Firith looked at his brother with the same expression as usual—mild bemusement—and then at Legolas. "You're getting better," he agreed matter-of-factly.

The young prince grinned at his friends and fired off another arrow. He was getting better; he could hit smaller, farther-away targets than a few years ago, and Kilvara was having him switch between multiple targets now so he could practice switching between enemies. "Think I will ever be as good as my Nana?" he asked his friends.

Tathor nodded enthusiastically.

"Maybe, if you keep practicing," said Firith.

Legolas nodded determinedly and went back to work.

"Can I try?" Tathor asked Firith hopefully.

Firith shook his head. "Not yet. Wait until you're bigger."

. . . . . .

"Ha! See that?"

"Yeah, but watch this... Uh... Never mind, don't watch that." Tathor wrinkled his nose and lowered his bow. "This is hard."

"Don't worry, you will get it," Legolas assured him. "Here, look." He sent one arrow to each of the three targets, and each hit within an inch or two of the center.

"Nice," Tathor said enviously.

"That's eight years of practice."

"Think I'll be that good in eight years?"

"Sure, yeah."

Tathor watched his friend send another couple of arrows to the center of the targets and shook his head, mouthing "Nah" to himself, but then he shrugged and pulled another arrow out of his quiver anyway.

. . . . . .

Felrion whistled softly. "He is going to be good."

Taensirion came to stand beside him on the balcony, watching the young prince—and Tathor, who liked to keep his friend company—practice in the new indoor archery range in the palace. "As good as his mother, do you think?"

"It's got to be close... not that this is my area of expertise."

Taensirion opened his mouth and closed it again; he had been about to agree that Felrion was certainly not an archer like his wife, but he was not sure how that would go over. He and the healer still treaded carefully around each other; a two-century-long grudge did not just go away in a few years.

Felrion saw his look. "You can say it," he sighed. "I'm absolutely awful with a bow, just like with blades."

"And yet you are the finest healer in the realm."

Felrion closed his eyes. "I never told you what set me off, did I?"

"You mean..."

"Yes." Another sigh. "I... I know it's irrational, but... I know in my heart that someday something awful is going to happen because I can't use weapons. Because I can't protect Kilvara."

"Does she need protecting?"

"Did Sky?"

"True." Taensirion thought for a moment, listening to the twang, twang, twang of the arrows. "But take it from someone who taught his wife to fight to keep her safe: skill with weapons does not change what you are worth. While it is nice to possess it, it is only one way to protect those you love... one arrow in the quiver, if you will."

"And I have more arrows, is that what you're saying? It would be nice to have them all."

"Of course, but we all have some things out of our reach. That is why I am not a healer."

Felrion nodded and turned back to the practicing elflings. "That boy, though... He has potential."

"Hardly surprising, given his mother's skill," Taensirion said, thinking their conversation had come full circle.

Felrion smiled as he turned to leave. "No, not Legolas. Tathor."

. . . . . .

Twang.

Thump.

Twang.

Thump.

Twang.

Thump.

Three bulls-eyes, and in a strong breeze, too. Legolas bounced on his heels as he surveyed his work, feeling quite proud of himself for both his shooting and talking his father into letting him go into the forest to practice instead of attending the boring council meeting.

Twang.

Thumpthump.

Legolas gasped and whirled around, because the two arrows that smacked into two separate targets at the exact same time were most certainly not his.

"Can you do that yet?" asked the copper-and-black-haired elf leaning casually against a tree, flipping his bow over in his hands.

"S...Storm?"

"Hey there, nephew." Storm trotted past him to retrieve his arrows, but paused and turned around. "Sorry it's been so long; I, ah, had some things to work through. Can I make it up to you?"

Legolas nodded mutely. Was this really his uncle, who he barely remembered? And was he going to teach Legolas to shoot like that?

"One thing, though. Your Ada might still be pretty mad at me and I'm not planning to stay long, so don't tell anyone I'm here, okay? Except Felrion and Kilvara."

"You are not staying?"

Storm winced. "I'm sorry, kid, I really am. Tell you what, I'll stay for at least a week and then I'll visit as often as I can, all right?"

Legolas gave him his best pout.

"Sorry. There are a whole bunch of orcs in the mountains and a lot of the western human villages are barely surviving." Storm really did feel bad; he hadn't quite realized how many years had passed. "And I'll tell you a lot of stories about your Nana that we haven't heard yet. Do we have a deal?"

Legolas thought about it and nodded.

You guys are mad at Storm, I can sense it. And you're justified in your feelings, but c'mon, he's going through some grief and figuring-out-priorities and stuff. And he feels guilty.

But also, here are some pinecones you can throw at him if it'll make you feel better. Just know he'll probably throw them back.