"LEGOLAS GET BACK HERE. I DON'T CARE IF YOU DON'T WANT TO, YOU'RE WEARING IT!" Thranduil hollered, striding after his fleeing son.

"But Adar! It's embarrassing!"

Thranduil rolled his eyes. "I'm wearing one too," he reprimanded, dangling the object in question between his son's eyes.

"But Adaaaaaaa," Legolas whined, eyes darting around, trying to find an escape route.

"Legolas, for Eru's sake, it's only for a night. It's a tradition that we must both live with," Thranduil huffed, slamming the circlet of roses onto his son's head. "And in all honesty, yours doesn't look nearly as horrid as mine." Thranduil gestured irritably to his own crown.

Legolas couldn't deny that. So, with a long-suffering sigh, the poor prince of Mirkwood adjusted the crown of roses upon his head, and followed his father up to the Feast of First Bloom, mentally preparing himself for yet another harrowing celebration.