He likes to be up early on Saturdays as he likes to take full advantage of weekends.
He jumps into extra hot shower and whips on a random wrinkled shirt and a pair of shorts, dragging his bike out of the apartment as a queue to start the day. He allows the wind and sunshine to dry his loose, perfectly blond hair, and by the time he reaches the deli four blocks from his place, his hair has slightly curled on edges.
With a luxurious breakfast in mind, he grabs a variety of bagels, a slab of smoked salmon, and some type of fancy cream cheese he has not tried before. 'Horseradish' cream cheese, it says handwritten on a tiny sticker on the plastic container. Why the hell not.
The sun feels wonderful on his face, there is delicious food jammed in his backpack and the world seems good today. That, and he is visiting his father again in Beverly Hills.
He could feel the cell phone vibrate in his pocket but he does not need to check who it is. He knows it's Tauriel notifying him that she's already waiting by the apartment lobby for their Saturday breakfast and that she is also starving.
Sooner or later he plans on giving her a duplicate key to his apartment. He has recently played with the idea of giving her access to his place after a drawn-out process of listing the pros and cons if he decides to go with it. It takes quite a while for him to hand out huge amounts of trust to people, let alone warming up to.
The person he is currently working on warming up to is his father. He feels there is so much to learn and discover about the one person he wants to be close to but who is emotionally closed to him. Somewhere in there, beneath the layers of thick bravado, is a person Legolas thinks is waiting to be loved.
He sharply turns around the corner and sees a small crowd outside the main entrance to his apartment, wrapped around a monster of a flatbed truck. His street does not usually accommodate transport vehicles, and because the intersection he lives in is constantly busy, it is attracting some attention. A couple of men hop off the front and walk towards the back of the truck as it beeps. A pearl white Ducati is being lowered to the ground, delivered by a Mr. Oropherion as promised on time.
Mixed in with the milling crowd is Tauriel, admiring the blinding shine of the motorcycle, too occupied to notice Legolas holding on to the bike handlebar in a tense manner, waiting for the pedestrian signal to flick on.
He finally catches her eyes and she nods in acknowledgement, lifting an eyebrow and flashing him a smile from across the street. She raises both arms, halfway and mid-air, and curls her fingers into the palms of her hands, further bending them inward twice, as if mimicking to rev a motorcycle.
He sits on a bench contemplatively, munching on a sesame bagel and then pausing to scratch his chin. He has now neglected his backpack full of groceries behind him on a bench and Tauriel can't keep still on the leather-covered seat of the Ducati.
She's modelling comically on the motorcycle in front of Legolas who is not really paying attention. Jutting out her chest and sticking out her butt, she gives him a sexy pout and then gives up on it altogether when she notices that he's just staring at the front wheel.
"First world problem huh," she says, running a finger across one of the gauges. She tries another seductive look. "If your dad is just beginning to make up for the years lost by handing you this little toy here like it's no biggie, then I'll be blown away to know what the rest of his gifts are."
"I think he's planning to send four more. This has to stop," Legolas says, popping in the last piece of bread into his mouth. "I don't know where I'm putting this thing."
Tauriel's face falls. "This thing here is begging to be taken out for a ride. Come on, you used to cruise around on this with me. Although I was terrified in the back seat…and it wasn't really a Ducati."
"Why does he have five of these, I don't get it," he feels stupid from asking.
"Simple. Because he can," Tauriel dismounts the motorcycle and hovers around in front of him before picking up his backpack. "You know, it's okay to accept frivolous things, especially from your own father."
"He told me to pick a luxury car, Tauriel, like it's a piece of candy he's giving away," he says incredulously. "…Is it abnormal to not want it?"
Tauriel does not bat an eyelash. "Probably," she pauses and gives him a playful nudge. "You never know, maybe this is just his way of showing affection. Wealthy people are wired a bit differently."
"I don't know. I'd rather have him hang out with me." He looks down on his bagel-free hands and fiddles his thumbs.
"That's a normal thing to want," she chuckles before she brings her cell phone close to his face. "Babe, before you post any Kijiji ad, can you take a picture of me on it? I have to update my Instagram."
He arrives fashionably late to the fashionable party, without showing off much extravagant fashion.
He is simple and handsome in his solid black shirt and dark washed jeans, long hair gathered neatly in a low ponytail the way his father wears his. Before he gets off his bike he spots a familiar butler friend who was glaring at him from beyond a patch of white roses.
"Master Legolas," the butler greets him, shooting a disappointed look at his non-extravagant bicycle.
"…I'm begging you Jim, do not call me that."
He is ignored. "Master Thranduil is expecting you, Master Legolas. He is in the backyard, left wing by the pool with the other guests. I shall take your bicycle and park it in the garage now."
"Oh, don't you worry about it Jim. In fact, I'll do a loop around and catch him there. Thanks bud," Legolas grins and continues to ride over complex concrete work. He is gone before the butler could argue.
Meanwhile, in the 'backyard' of the mansion, red wine is being poured freely and endless plates of hors d'oeuvres are making the rounds. The three guesthouses built around the main pool are occupied by the regular horde of Hollywood socialites and journalists Thranduil does not care to know, but are present because of distant associations. Laughter and endless chatter envelop the Oropherion mansion, the general vibe pretentious and spunky.
He stands in the middle of a small group, tall in his crisp black suit, and the diamonds embedded in his cuff links reflect as they catch the sun. His movements are slow and controlled, and as usual, he is not generous with words. His right hand holds a glass of wine and his eyes are empty, settled far out on the roof of one of the guesthouses. Wrapped around his neck is a ridiculous golden silk scarf to match his golden, victorious hair wrapped in low ponytail. He then darts quick looks around the corners as if he just remembered something, ignoring the high-pitched laugh of Galadriel standing across from him.
Beside him is his business partner of roughly ten years, Thorin Oakenshield; Harvard-educated, golf enthusiast, and blessed with the looks of a model carved out of a GQ magazine cover. There is a natural sense of dark in his features, his black hair is long, wavy and styled with moose, tied back in a lazy ponytail. But his enchanting eyes give light, for they are the piercing kind of deep blue. His brooding, enigmatic aurora around him is broken as soon as he breaks into a grin.
He nudges Thranduil's elbow to catch his attention and it works, but Thranduil merely rolls his eyes over to look at him. Thorin clears his throat.
"Over a cup of tea one fine Californian afternoon, Galadriel and I were talking about business legacy, because ours is strong and reputable. We were reviewing the growth and scope in the past couple of quarters, and how we can be more innovative and fierce on the marketing side," he pauses to take a sip of wine. "Pandora's giving quite the competition these days. Every teenaged girl has those stupid charms."
"That is barely a problem. Buy out Pandora," Thranduil exhales in a smooth monotone.
Thorin's face freezes before he lets out a full-hearted guffaw in response to Thranduil's very limited answer, chest heaving as he slaps a hand over it. "You're hilarious, Thranduil, you know that? That's why I like you," Thorin goes off, slightly tipping his wine glass and is now starting to show first signs of intoxication. "We ought to do afternoons of tea."
"Thorin, I have meetings lined up and coming out of my ear," Thranduil says as-a-matter-of-fact. "I have no time for 'afternoons of tea'."
"Apparently not, because you never had a care to ever inform me, not even once in our ten years of partnership, that you have 'your' own little, personal legacy," Thorin blurts out and then nods weakly at Galadriel. Now he has Thranduil's full attention because Thranduil's icy blue eyes are piercing through his. Galadriel avoids Thranduil's glare by looking down at her shoes.
Thranduil realizes that the one thing he had kept private for many years is now out in the open. He was not quite sure how to deal with it, but for once he is not deferring a decision by first weighing the pros and cons of reuniting with his estranged son, as his analytical mind would normally drag him through. Instead he focuses on his feelings, and he categorizes them as 'happiness', and even 'relief', and he leaves it at that.
"He's not little. He's a twenty-four year old grown man," he grasps his cool back and corrects a technicality.
"Once you see him, it's obvious where he gets his stunning good looks," Galadriel says proudly and nods at Thranduil, completely ignorant of Legolas' mother. "So far he seems fun-loving, free spirit, and has a middle finger in the air type of attitude towards life…" she trails while Thranduil appears to have zoned out again.
"Obviously he didn't get those ones from you." Thorin refers to Thranduil and is quick to point out with a snicker.
"I believe he's intelligent and life has a lot to offer him. He is also musically talented. He told me he has a rock band" he emphasizes on the word 'rock' as if it was alien and rare. There is a quick flash of interest in his eyes and then it's gone.
Thorin finishes his glass and hails a roaming butler for another fill. "Sounds like a standup guy. So when do I get to finally meet…"
The flow of their conversation is suddenly disturbed by a noise coming from around the corner. An alarmed "Whoa!" garners the attention of business owners and B-list celebrities alike, followed by the sound of screeching tires, and finally, a series of undistinguishable kerfuffle.
There goes Legolas flying off of his bicycle, sideswiping a startled butler carrying a silver tray of beef tartare on one hand. Legolas gracelessly plummets into the middle of a well-trimmed hedge after his bike sinks into it first while the butler tips backwards and hits the concrete on a sitting position. The butler helplessly looks on at his scattered beef tartare that layers the top of the bushes while Legolas flings his head above the hedge.
"I'm okay!" declares Legolas in a muffled voice amongst the leaves, lifting a hand and painstakingly gives a thumbs-up. The butler is quick on his feet and tends to the poor soul lost in the bushes.
"Master! Are you hurt?" he asks as he slaps away twigs so he could reach for Legolas.
"Jones…if you call me Master again we will not be friends anymore…" Legolas jokes in a serious way as he emerges, turning up his nose at the butler. "You have a piece of beef in your front pocket."
The butler calmly explains to Legolas that it's a type of fancy hors d'oeuvre and that it is rare but quite good. In the midst of apologizing to the butler for knocking him out, Legolas catches, from his side vision, what he thought was his reflection standing under a gazebo, studying him intensely.
"Hi dad!" he turns and waves towards the reflection. The butler also ends up doing the gesture.
Thorin and Galadriel's jaws hang open in the slightest bit, and in unison turn to Thranduil as if awaiting a form of confirmation.
Thranduil juts his chin out, making his eyes turn into narrow slits, looking on as Legolas awkwardly picks beef tartare from the bushes. There is a small smile on his face. "…my son."
Legolas fidgets from side to side, finding it hard to jump into the group conversation being led mostly by Thorin. Money figures in large denominations, business transactions and economic terms are being exchanged aggressively between Thorin and Galadriel, and sometimes Thranduil would throw in a couple of quiet comments here and there whenever he felt like talking. Legolas feels a tinge of boredom and switches his focus towards the two women with fake breasts clad in monokini squeal as they jump into the pool.
Thranduil seems suddenly upstarted, as if he just remembered to pay attention to his son who has been standing quietly in his own world.
"Legolas. Have some wine before dinner," Thranduil speaks softly to his son.
"I'm not exactly a wine person. Do you have beer laying around here?" Legolas asks casually, and at the hitch on the note of the question, a butler magically appears on his side to tend to his need.
"We do not have beer, master," a new butler says firmly. Thranduil looks like he's sending a telepathic message to the butler by the way his eyes are darting sideways at him.
"Oh. That's fine. Is there a convenience store close by that I can get to?" Legolas asks again, but he's already expecting no as an answer. Galadriel and Thorin raise their eyebrows as if revolted by the term 'convenience store'.
"Actually no, there isn't any-" the butler begins but is cut-off by Thranduil who is now a little bit worked up for the first time.
"What kind of beer would you like?" Thranduil diverts Legolas from the butler.
There is a rogue glint dancing in Legolas' eyes. For some reason he wants to test how far and ridiculous this can all go. "I prefer Labatt Blue."
The butler pauses and takes his time doing it. "But, that is Canadian beer, if I'm not mistaken? I'm afraid that is not readily and easily accessible…" he is breaking all sorts of rules at this point just by challenging the request of a master of the house.
"Brooker," Thranduil is stern and almost creepy. "Prepare the jet, assign a pilot to Canada, I don't care how you do it. But you will get my son a case of Labatt. Tomorrow, you will see me in my office at nine in the morning."
One can almost see a stream of air following the nervous butler's trail as he made an exit to arrange an important matter such as hauling beer across the border. Legolas' face turns white and his hand comes up to slap his forehead in disbelief.
"...Please don't fire him," he makes a plea. Seeing that his father is non-responsive, the alarm in his head intensifies.
"Dad, I was joking! He didn't have to get me that, really!" he also ends up muffling "Oh my god" because his other hand is covering his mouth. He then tries to recollect his breath. "You have a jet…"
"Do you like Labatt Blue?"
"Yes I do but!—"
"Then you shall receive Labatt Blue," Thranduil finishes the discussion and almost hums before he magnificently lifts the wine glass closer to his lips. There were no additional protests heard from Legolas for the rest of the day.
Legolas barely left his father's side during the party, gliding in and out of the mansion and hopping from one crowd to the next. He still was not clear on what the party was all about, but some time between meeting an aspiring stripper and when the mushroom polenta diamonds bee-lined their way out of the kitchen, he stopped bothering to remember people's names. He has met plenty of different characters and odd personalities, but there is an underlying impression that unifies his opinion on the elite crowd his father manages to attract. He thinks everyone is a bit of a phony.
He has also witnessed different types of reaction each time Thranduil introduced him as his son; either of dismay or extreme intrigue. He expects a lot of hushed talk about him and behind him as he moved from person to person, but he finds it hard to care.
As dusk rolls around, Thranduil takes a trip all the way to the main library on the second floor of the mansion with Legolas in tow, who now has a special Labatt Blue beer bottle in his hand. By this time Thranduil has had his fourth glassful of wine and is now working on his fifth, but he is still as elegant and poised as the lifeless bronze statue erected in the middle of the driveway roundabout.
The room boasts dark-stained mahogany shelves that stretch from floor to ceiling, and tall windows that let the dying rays of afternoon sun rush through inside. There are beige lamps on each corner of the room; their shades adorned with sparkling yellow crystals that Legolas assumes are strictly Swarovski gems. In the middle of the floor are two white couches with gold trimming and a large coffee table made of wood from a piece of an antique window, originating from India. Beside one of the couches is a round aquarium sitting on top of an end table, with a Siamese fighting fish as its lone resident, dark blue and red in hue.
Legolas sweeps over his father's unbelievable collection of books with delight while Thranduil places his wine down and walks toward a specific section of the wall shelf where the aquarium is nearby. Legolas notices that the majority of the books is of classic literature, from Shakespeare and Tolkien, to Edgar Allan Poe and Jane Austen.
"I haven't seen every single room in here but this is by far the most impressive," Legolas says, pulling a book by George Orwell halfway out and running a hand over the beveled text on the hard cover.
Thranduil is reaching for something inside an empty space of a particular shelf when he looks over his shoulder to speak to his son.
"This is where I go to unwind, escape into a different form of reality. It's my favourite part of the house," he says, pushing a button and then stepping back a little. As if realizing that he may have sounded somewhat sentimental, his face suddenly hardens. "Reality bores me sometimes, it's terrible."
"I happen to think your reality is unreal on multiple levels," Legolas responds, tucking the book back and begins to walk across the room to join his father. "I could've sworn your favourite room was the car garage." He takes a swig of his beer, trying to keep a slow drinking pace.
Thranduil keeps a small smile to himself as he turns away from Legolas and waits as the back of the shelf slide open. What was hidden from plain sight was a small storage area keeping some scrapbooks, folded letters, a locked diary, and a number of photo albums. He picks up a certain album and visibly gathers some nerves before he flips it open.
"These are some of the few pictures I have of you when you were a baby. They are the most precious," Thranduil says, his voice dropping as he moves the album closer to Legolas, revealing a page. There is a picture that was taken from the point of view of someone standing on the bed looking down, and Thranduil and baby Legolas are side by side, facing each other and lying down on their stomachs. Thranduil's hair was a lot shorter then, running down until just about his chin, gloriously fanned against the pillow as he looked up at the camera from a sharp angle with a big smile on his face. Meanwhile, baby Legolas had his thumb positioned to go into his tiny mouth while he was looking up curiously at his father, wisps of thin, blond hair crowning his head. And if one looked closer, their corresponding birthmarks peek from what little was showing of their necks, two perfectly symmetrical shapes that create an anchor once merged.
Legolas' hand subconsciously lifts and snakes to the back of his neck, placing his fingers there for a second. His eyes are twinkling, or bordered with incoming tears, it could've been either one. He is smiling so hard it almost hurts him, but what ends up hurting him more is when he glances up at his father and all he sees beyond his curled up lips is melancholy hidden in the back of his eyes.
Legolas sniffs and shakes his head. "Seriously, dad, you haven't aged one bit," he tries to cheer him up.
Unexpectedly, Legolas reaches out to flip the page over and manages to see a sliver of the next picture. He is sure he caught sight of half of a woman's face, her hair long and strawberry blonde, until Thranduil aggressively shuts the album close at the sound of a butler knocking on the door and letting himself in. Legolas springs back and almost feels guilty from looking at what he felt was something he was not supposed to see.
"Master Thranduil. Word has reached the public after the market close today. The press and paparazzi have made their way through the property and are gathered in the main entrance," the butler sounds grave at the news he has brought on.
"The press?" Thranduil asks.
"Wall Street Journal is one of them. Also Forbes," the butler answers.
"Lock the gates to the back area of the mansion," he orders. The butler nods and leaves the room.
In haste, Thranduil returns the album in the secret compartment and tells Legolas to follow him as he moves across the floor to a set of doors that Legolas has never noticed before, mainly because it has the exact same finish as the wooden shelves.
"I had Thorin arrange partial year-end financial data to be disclosed to the public. For 2014 our company proudly reports a three million dollar annual profit," Thranduil fills in Legolas with regards to the business. "I also asked him to arrange a quick conference outside the main office tomorrow."
"I guess that didn't fare out well. The public seems eager to stick their noses in," Legolas says, watching the back of his father's head as they pause at the door.
Using both his hands, Thranduil grabs the handles and pushes the doors open, welcoming a quick but strong gust of wind that minimally lifts their ponytailed hair. Legolas realizes that they are now on the grand balcony of the mansion, overlooking the main gate and the driveway below. Some of the press are grouped around the bronze statue while some are on the side, setting up their audio and video equipment.
With his hands clasped behind him, Thranduil steps forward to the railing of the balcony and waits for Legolas to stand beside him. It takes one sharp-eyed paparazzi to notice that there is something moving on the balcony above them, and a news reporter to jumpstart a series of rushed noise and inaudible babble from the crowd.
Thranduil concludes that the press is extra excited today because this would be the first time they lay their eyes on Legolas, who was faceless when the rumour first sparked and had been floating around. The noise does not wash out and many cameras have started flashing upwards at the balcony.
"Thranduil, can you confirm if you will host a Swarovski Gala on New Year's Eve? And if so, care to share a part of the invitation list?"
"Thranduil, congratulations on the financial success of your company at the tail-end of the year. Are there any re-structuring or further acquisition on the horizon for you and Mr. Oakenshield?"
"Thranduil, can you confirm if that is your long-lost son Legolas Thranduillion?"
"Legolas! Look over here!"
"Legolas! To your left! Look to your left!"
"Legolas! Why reunite with your father now?"
"Legolas! Give us a smile! Right here, on your right!"
Legolas shifts around as he is shouted at, uncomfortable from the kind of attention that is being paid to him. Thranduil does not seem to be fazed by the barrage of questions and instead, scans the rowdy crowd below them from left to right. His hooded eyes then settle on Legolas', his eyelashes fluttering.
"Look, Legolas. Everything that fuels Swarovski success and keeps me in my high Hollywood status is our kingdom. A corporate king's time as ruler rises and will fall. One day, Legolas, the success will pause on my time here, and will be in continuum with you as the new corporate king."
Legolas is speechless and blinks at his father as a response, his eyebrows furrowing in confusion. He feels incredibly tense that he is not aware of the strangulation of the neck of his beer bottle and his knuckles are turning pale.
Thranduil chuckles away and in the gentlest tone, tells his son, "Do not come to your workplace on Monday. You will join me in an upper management meeting. I don't expect you to contribute." Thranduil backs away slowly and turns around to head for the door into the library. "I would just like for you to sit with me on the round table."
And with that, his unscheduled public appearance is finished, and all of the flying questions remain unanswered.