A/N: Hello and welcome to chapter 11! This bad boy was super long, and a bit of a challenge to write, so I hope it pays off!
At first Legolas does not know what to do with himself. The thought of having the whole afternoon to himself is thrilling, but he halts upon the stone floor. Should I run down to visit Annith at the barracks? Or should I go to the kitchens?
A well-timed rumble of his stomach answers his question. With his fae light in his chest, he heads down the winding corridors of his Halls to the kitchens. Like much of the King's Halls, the kitchens are under open ceilings and are easily accessible for all, no matter where they live. Placed on the lowest level of the Halls, they are joined up with the many storage-rooms which house much of the season's vegetables and dried meats collected from the well-tended gardens and the fairer parts of the forest. With many elegant windows carven in the walls, the various scents of the cooks' work continually reach all within the guarded realm and allows for natural light to filter in and brighten up the busy space.
Now, the kitchens are overflowing with more than 3 dozen edhil at various stations, and Legolas has to stand aside to allow two muscled ellyth carting entire sacks of flour over their shoulders to pass into the kitchens.
"Mae govannen Maeasson!" Legolas greets happily as he steps into the busy rooms.
The red-haired cook lifts his head from where he has been stirring a bubbling pot of venison soup.
"Mae govannen, Prince Legolas. What do you want?" The rough voice is disgruntled, but Legolas knows the old Cook well and can read the look of welcome behind his eyes. While his features do not express anything close to a smile, his eyes clear and soften upon realising who stands in his kitchen. Maeasson has been around since Lhosben was an elfling himself, and has served each of the children of Thranduil with the same irritable fondness.
"I was wondering, well, if you had any food to spare?" He shoots a hopeful look at the Cook, turns to wave at an apprentice who calls out a greeting.
The broad-shouldered ellon rolls his eyes at his request, but gestures to a golden-haired elleth from earlier hours. "Nelwen, fetch this troublesome laes some bread and cheese."
Despite standing at her bench with her arms buried in the guts of a wild hare, she still turns and after wiping her hands on the corner of her bloodied apron, hurries off at her Master's words. Legolas smiles gratefully up at the red-haired ellon.
"Ivon, boy, don't bat those big eyes at me! Go sit on the bench over there until she brings you your food," The Cook grumbles, and turns back to his soup.
Dutifully, Legolas sits down on the rough wooden bench which is pushed against the west side of the kitchen and serves as a respite for those within the kitchens. Glancing about the kitchens, his eyes are immediately drawn to the piles of potatoes and vegetables that remain unpeeled or in the process of being diced and cut.
No doubt with Mereth-en-Giliath tomorrow the kitchens will be busy preparing and cooking all the food needed for such a glorious feast far into the night and maybe even until anor peeks out from her bed of clouds.
"Would you like some help with peeling some vegetables?" He calls politely. An ellon carrying two heavy pots of vegetables rushes past him, huffing a polite greeting and neatly dodging the large bulk of the cook.
Maeasson scowls back up at him, tossing back an unruly strand of red hair which has creeped out of its tight braid. "And have your tiny fingers cut off in the process and the King breathing down my neck? No, I and my apprentices are fine. Now- someone fetch me the chopping board for the carrots- no, I need the onions cut, not diced!"
His fingers are not tiny! Legolas swallows down the indignation as he glances down at the digits, uncurls them. They are perfectly proportioned for an ellon of his size!
The apprentice Nelwen reappears from the storage rooms with a platter ladened with the requested cheese and bread. Up close she appears weary from her task, but still manages to blink kindly at him. "Here, my prince."
"Thank you," he smiles at her as he accepts the platter and eagerly bites into the snacks. A muffled groan escapes him; the cheese has a strong tang which melts into his tongue and explodes across his senses. Similarly, the thick, nutty texture of the bread only seems to add to the heady taste of the soft cheese.
A small smile presses against Nelwen's lips. "Good?"
He nods, already reaching for another piece. "Wery! I ha'n't eaten lunch, so-" he swallows his mouthful, recalling that it is rude to eat and talk at the same time, especially for a prince. "It is perfect."
The elleth's soft brown eyes crinkle in amusement. "That is good to hear, my prince."
"Nelwen!" The short-tempered cook looks over and sees that his apprentice still talks with Legolas. "We don't have all yen to stand around and talk! Move and get to the hares before they spring up from their deathbeds and escape!"
Nelwen's eyes slide over to where her master stands, mittened hands on his hips, and she gives him a quick nod before hurrying back to her station.
Legolas dutifully stifles a smile by shoving more bread and cheese into his mouth. The past conversation with his brother seems easy to push back into the corners of his mind when he has a full stomach and plenty of company.
As he'd hoped, Maeasson eventually relents and allows him to grate some cheese, and then once he sees he does not mortally wound himself, moves him on to peeling potatoes and carrots.
And so he happily passes the rest of the afternoon grating, peeling and eventually (under the shrewd eye of the cook) cutting vegetable after vegetable and chatting to those who pass him.
Evening descends far quicker than Legolas would like. He can feel the Song of the forest growing quiet as anor's journey through the sky begins to wane, preparing for another time of shadows and creatures that only stir in the dark.
"Ernil Legolas?"
He looks up from the pile of sliced carrots to see a guard clattering their way down the stairs to the kitchens. They stand stiff-backed and resolute in the doorway. "My prince, the Lady Faervel has requested your presence in your chambers urgently."
"Go on," Maeasson responds gruffly, straightening up from where he has been bent over tiny pastries the size of his thumb. "You've done plenty here."
"Are you sure? I'm happy to stay a little longer…" Legolas says carefully, slowly tugging off the apron one of the apprentices had lent him. It has been so nice just to put his mind towards rhythmic, menial work and to spend time amongst other edhil, and he does not wish at all to attend tonight's dinner.
One muscled hand waves him towards the door. "Yes I'm sure! Go, before your lady aunt sets us all on fire for keeping you!"
Reluctantly, Legolas leaves his station and bids farewell to the kitchen staff. A sudden surge of pain strikes in his fae as he looks at all the familiar faces, their smiles, sharp words and busy hands. This might be the last time I spend in the kitchens, at least for a few days.
But it isn't forever, he tries to reassure himself as he turns and follows the guard up the stairs and towards the royal wing. And I will come home to find you all still here.
The thought is a hollow one, and even though it is true, it still does little to soothe the sudden writhing of nerves in his stomach.
"Here, my prince," the guard leads him right to the entrance to his chambers, and a thrill of recognition runs up his spine as he spies those familiar bright eyes from behind the stern mask.
"Tervon?"
"My prince," the guard smiles down at him from underneath his impassive mask. His voice drops to a conspiratorial whisper. "If I were you, I would tread carefully. Your Lady Aunt is-"
The warning is cut off as the bond between he and his aunt shivers, and the dark head of his aunt swings around the doorway. Her chestnut eyes flash at him, relief slipping across her face. "Laeslas? Ivon, I was about to go mad with worry! Dinner with your father is in less than a half-hour."
"Sorry, aunt." Legolas gives Tervon a grin before hurrying in to his chamber.
Luckily his aunt does not seem to be angry at his impromptu disappearance; her eyes are softer than usual, and search his face carefully. Looking, he realises, for traces of pain over the fight between my father and I.
The thought causes a dull ache to form between his cage of ribs. Resolute as he has been to push his pain away, he knows it lingers still between the bond with his father, and now it flares like a dull ember stirred back to life.
"Are you well, Laes?" She asks quietly.
"I am," he says, and pushes aside the ache between his ribs.
"Lhosben told me that he had arranged for the afternoon off for you, but he did not tell me where you went off to" Faervel says after a moment of studying his face. Her hands are cool as she grasps his hand to pull him over to his bed. Several brightly coloured tunics lie upon its sheets, staring back up at him tauntingly. They are formal tunics, he notes with dismay, each and every one of them with some sort of fine embroidery and stitching in gold or green. Each have the stiff-necked collar he so hates.
And, he glances fully at his aunt for the first time, she too wears a fine blue gown with a silver underdress and long, trailing sleeves.
"Aunt," he protests, "do I have to wear them with the collar?"
"Yes you do," she says, pushing a green and grey tunic towards him. "And you ignore me. Where were you?"
"Just the kitchens," he pulls off his tunic and slides down into the fine, silk tunic. The fabric clings to his skin, as close as a touch; he feels constricted, as though when he breathes it too breathes with him. He hates it. "I was helping Maeasson with the feast tomorrow."
"Mhmm…" Faervel helps him with his collar, and then with quick fingers undoes the two braids that hang from either side of his face and reties them.
"Ouch!" He yelps as her fingers catch in a knot. "Why- why do I have to wear this?"
"Because your father wishes to speak with the whole family tonight," his aunt mumbles as she holds a hair tie in her mouth. "And so he requests that we all look our best. Stop wriggling!"
"But it's just us," Legolas complains. "Not with some councilellon or elleth."
"Don't ask me to explain your father, child. Do you think I also like parading around our private chambers in such a restricting gown?" She gives his braids a tug. "There, finished. Now take those old boots off and put the better pair on."
"They're not old," Legolas protests, "they're just…worn."
"Tired," his aunt quips. "Ready for throwing out. Hurry up, Laeslas! We must go soon!"
Yanking on the boots, Legolas rushes after his aunt as she sweeps out of their chambers with a rustle of silk.
They reach the entrance to the formal dining room after a few minutes of turning down several corridors. Faervel's step is quick, no matter the weight of her gown's train, and Legolas has to trot to keep up with her as they reach the wooden doors which lead into the dining room. Against his skin his heart begins to kick, and his stomach churns. Behind these doors is his father- and everything he has said.
"I-I do not wish to see you ever again!"
A heady mix of fear and nerves clasps at his throat, chokes off his breath. More than what has been said, he must remember to hold his tongue! He must not give himself away!
"Aunt," he abruptly reaches out and catches her trailing, moonlit sleeve. The silk fabric is cool under the pads of his fingers, like the touch of early autumn snow. "What- what do I say? To Ada?"
Farevel's eyes widen just a fraction, falling on his fingers which grasp at her sleeve. "Just follow me. He will not look to fight with you, not in front of the entire family."
The carved oaken doors swing open with a groan, and light spills out to greet them. Just beyond that is the familiar table, but now extended several lengths to accomodate near a dozen edhil. Most of whom are- not his family?
One familiar yet unexpected face is the Lady Elegessil, dressed in a fine gown of green, and who stands to greet them. "Announcing the Lady Faervel, She Who Walks Amongst Trees, sister of She Who Walks in Eternal Starlight, and the Prince Legolas, He Who Brings Light."
"Ivon's sweet-smelling hair," Faervel mutters out of the corner of her mouth, "what is Elegessil doing here?" Her words trail off as there is a ripple of red and silver silk, and the King rises up from the head of the table.
His grey eyes travel first to his aunt, and then onto Legolas for a brief heartbeat. Traitorously, he feels his fae tug with longing within his chest as their gazes meet, and the deep, familiar voice reaches their ears.
"Welcome, Lady Faervel. Welcome, Prince Legolas. I bid you both to join us at my table."
Legolas follows his aunt as she gives the King a respectful bow, and then moves to take their seats. Mercifully, someone has placed him beside a stormy-eyed Annith and opposite Lhosbend who offers him a quick grin.
"Laeslas" his sister's lips curve into a small smile, but the tempest does not completely vanish from her face. "It is good to see you."
"And you, Annith." Legolas replies, sliding down into his seat with care not to tear the ridiculous tunic. Even as he nudges the creaking chair closer to the table, he can feel the weight of his father's gaze on him. It makes his stomach churn and their bond shiver with the want to reach out and plead forgiveness-
"Why in Ivon's great green Arda are there so many councilmen and women here?" Lhosbend's irritated voice distracts Legolas from the uncomfortable eyes which prickle at his skin. "Did you know?"
"No," he says earnestly, surprised himself. "Faervel said that it was supposed to be just us."
"That's what Adar said," the fair-haired ellon agrees with a short nod. He looks just as uncomfortable as Legolas feels, dressed in a tight grey tunic with tiny silver leaves delicately embroidered into a stiff-necked collar. "What about you, Annith?"
Beside him, his sister gives a shrug but remains silent. She too wears a grey gown with light blue edging, and more importantly, a finely wrought silver circlet and an expression that suggests someone had to forcibly shove it down onto her dark head.
"Well, I just wanted some peace and quiet to eat my food and then leave, but I guess we won't be seeing that until the next yen if Lord Míwon is here…" Lhosbend grumbles.
Legolas turns to the head of the table. Sure enough, near the front of the table sits the ancient ellon in an old-fashioned robe of red and white. Beside him is the Lady Elegessil, and the dour-faced Lord Arodon. The three favourite advisors of the King, all of whom have known his father for many yen before Legolas himself was born.
Lhosbend is right. What are they all doing here, when it is supposed to be just a family dinner? This question bothers him until the second course of dinner, and fear prickles at his skin, keeps his mouth shut. He barely manages to utter more than a few sentences when Emlinel inquires after his lessons; every muscle in his body is tense, and his tongue is heavy with the weight of treachery.
Throughout it, Legolas hardly touch the platters of food he is offered. Not only is he still full from all the cheese and bread he had snacked on earlier in the kitchens, but the constant sound of his own heartbeat in his ears makes eating near impossible.
"'Nith?" He turns towards his sister, who has finished her two courses and gazes around the table with narrowed eyes. "Do you want my food?"
One sun-darkened hand extends and grasps the rim of his plate, pulling it silently towards her. Instinct warns him that his sister is irritated by far more than having to wear such finery before her family; carefully, he nudges their bond, and finds himself nearly choking from the roar of anger that slams against his fae. Annith is furious in such a way that he has felt only on rare occasions, and he quickly pulls away.
Observance takes him to look upon the bright-eyed figure that sits at the head of the table. His father wears a seasonal crown of berries and autumn leaves, and an expression as unchangeable as the face of a mountain. A goblet rests easily between long fingers, but not once does Legolas see his father take a sip. The sturdy, ancient fae which usually remains buried now beats against the pale shell of his rhaw, lashing against the feeble cage.
Something is deeply wrong, he concludes, pushing his fingers under his legs to stop them from trembling, and not just with Annith. Looking closely, he spies the shadows that are more difficult to conceal, ones which edge around his father's storm-grey eyes and pull at the fair skin. His father is tired, and more than usual. But from what?
He isn't so foolish as to think that he is the cause of such exhaustion. His father has dealt with enough opposition from Aeglostor to no longer be affected by even him throwing angry words to his face. Could it be the naugrim, perhaps? But why would dwarves be the cause of such exhaustion? Even despite Thorin Oakenshield's humiliating claims of dishonour and cruelty, was the little group of dwarves truly responsible for the near-bruises under those cold eyes?
A sharp jab from Annith draws him out of his observations, and he looks to see that all the plates have been cleared from the table. The King again rises from his seat.
"I must thank all of you for attending such a dinner," his father says, voice mild as a spring breeze. "And for my family who are willing to sit through another time of politics and announcements."
Politics? A murmur runs across the dining table. Announcements?
The King continues after a brief nod towards them. "Yes, I will speak of politics today, and to those I hold within my trust."
Daring a glance at Annith, Legolas finds her gaze to be as hot as live flame and unmoving from their father. His fae trembles, anticipating trouble.
"After many hours of consideration with my council, and with the advice of my heir, the Crown Prince Lhosben, I have decided to immediately withdraw all forces from the south of the forest and instead focus on protecting what forest remains untouched by the Shadow."
Withdraw? The word rings through his head, followed quickly by a disbelief that steals his breath. Withdraw from their own forest? Leave Eryn Galen unprotected to the darkness which spreads?
Legolas cannot believe his ears.
"Time and time again I have had to watch as those devoted to the service of the crown and our Realm journey into those southern reaches of our once beloved woods and return a shadow of themselves, or with their fae fled to the Halls of He who Gathers Souls. Now I say this; no more."
Silence surrounds the table, as though a wolf has grabbed them all by their throats and refuses to allow speech.
It is Faervel who is the first to shake off the wolf, and she rises to her feet with fury driven deep into her face. "You, Thranduil Hir, would leave our forest to die slowly and without the protection of we who have lived here for uncountable seasons? How can you desert she who gives us life, all we need?"
A look of displeasure crosses his father's face. "Lady Faervel, I ask you to please-"
Faervel cuts him off with a slash of her hand, and scandalised gasps rise up from all seated. No one, not even Aeglostor, whose hatred for their father runs deeper than he can fully understand, has dared to interrupt the King, not for many yen!
His aunt continues, undeterred. "A King's duty is not just to his people, but to the land he rules his people on! You would be giving up not just that which we have sworn to protect, but our very existence!"
Legolas feels the hair on the back of his neck prickle at her words. Yet even still, pride and admiration for his brave aunt makes his fae swell. There is a long pause where the entire table seems to be holding its breath, waiting for the rage of their King to come crashing down upon their heads.
Yet his father- his father simply bows his head. "I understand your words, and your fear, Lady Faervel. These concerns have all been raised, but I will not be dissuaded from my course."
There is a sudden screech of wood upon stone. Annith stands, her face twisted with equal parts fury and disbelief. Though she rests her hands on the table, Legolas can see the strong digits tremble with fury.
"I do not believe this," she hisses to the remote, golden figure who stands silent and waiting. "You who once stood and faced the great serpents of the North now quail and shudder before a Shadow-"
"A Shadow" his father's voice is low and tightly controlled, but nonetheless holds the bite of cold winter winds, the flash of deadly teeth that silences even Annith, "which destroys our forest even with all the force of my power and that of my people to stop it."
His sister bristles within her silver gown. "You do not understand- we cannot simply give in to it!"
"Annith," from across the table Lhosben tries to interject, his cheeks flushed at the growing argument unfolding before all, "muinthel-"
"Baw!" The elleth slashes a hand in the air, glowers at those at the table. Her furious black gaze burns even onto Legolas, and he flinches away, shrinks against his chair. It is no use touching their bond- she is like a tempest, a howling creature unleashed, and her fury will not be tamed until she deems it so.
Legolas cannot help but admire her- his furious sister, who refuses to give in. She truly is fierce, he thinks, recalling Belathon's admiring words. I would not want to cross her.
"You may all sit here like cowards," she snarls, and this time her gaze is solely on the tall figure that is their father, "but be assured that when it comes to face the Shadow, it will be my sword which will defend all of Eryn Galen!" And without a care for the uproar she has caused, nor the way Legolas' heart beats quickly for her boldness, Annith turns on her heel and storms from the dining room.
A/N: Man this chapter was a long one! I've even had to cut some of it down, and will post it with the next chapter.