Hi, everyone! I want to apologize in advance - this chapter is a smidge shorter than usual. I'm visiting my cousin in Washington DC so my attention's a bit splintered, I've been really busy and just chipping away at this in the evenings.

The last chapter received such a warm welcome back, I want to thank ALL of you! I've honestly never had anything I've written get responses with such unique and interesting interpretations of characters and events - and with such detail! Holy crap. BlackBack01, I wanted to thank you particularly for your insightful review - aside from genuinely shocking me with your attention to detail, feedback like that helps calibrate a writer's process, letting us know what's being picked up that we put down, etc. So, thank you.

Cheers to you all!

CHAPTER NINE

Don't Kill the Messenger

"Might I be so bold as to inquire after your foul mood?" said Thranduil, King of the Greenwood, to his son. Parchments were strewn about the table in front of him, a dour look on his face.

Legolas paced nearby in his father's study, stalking back and forth at the edge of a pool. The Halls of Thranduil towered overhead, and in the distance, Legolas could hear the creaks cutting through the amalgamating palace of stone and wood.

"I don't know what you're talking about," he said, snapping the parchment he'd been holding for the past fifteen minutes—reading the same lines over and over again.

"Only the one you've managed to sport for—oh, I've lost count of the months," said the king, taking his glass of wine and sipping it. "Can hardly believe I sired you."

"Believe me, father, your foul moods have no rival," Legolas muttered under his breath.

"What is the purpose of this stubborn thorn you've wedged into my side?" Thranduil narrowed his eyes. "Have you no sense of moderation in testing your father's patience?"

"Once more, I don't know what you're talking about," Legolas snapped, crinkling the edge of the parchment he held—he now stood still at the edge of the pool, staring down at a singe word on the page: 'invitations.' "I've been in a perfectly fine mood. I was perfectly happy to return to Eryn Lasgalen and have enjoyed being home ever since."

A pause of silence, and even Legolas realized what he'd said. "I did not imply that you were unhappy to return home," Thranduil answered calmly, and Legolas slid him an annoyed look, just in time to see his father swing his gaze to the maid at work behind him. "Arys, what were those rumors you told me about?"

Arys, his father's maid, paused abruptly from straightening the bookshelf—almost as though she'd been struck. "That the prince has never been quite this distraught," her answer was muffled and uncomfortable.

"Oh, but there is more to it."

Legolas stopped his pacing to look at the woman. In another life, he might have thought their relationship strange—his father seemed to enjoy tormenting his maid, and yet, he always seemed to have inexplicable ammunition with which to do so.

His father leaned back leisurely to face her and add, "Speak freely, my dear."

Arys glanced at the king, annoyance in her eyes. "If my king wishes me to speak, then I shall speak," she muttered with great exhaustion. Thranduil smiled just the slightest bit as she sat down at the far end of the table, crossing one leg over the other. "Rumor has it that your mood has something to do with the mortal woman that lives in Lorien, your highness."

The king leaned toward her conspiratorially. "Arwen's adopted daughter, my dear," he said in a secretive whisper. "What was her name, again?"

The prince simply had to take a moment to observe their odd interaction: his father, ever the resplendent elven king, tormenting the poor girl. Legolas had seen her trailing after him here and there for a number of years, but he still knew little of Arys the maid.

Her eyes bore an odd mix of defiance as she glared at him. "I've heard courtiers speaking of this woman—her name is Estel," she said. "Supposedly, she refuses to leave the elven kingdoms and claim her place among the mortals. She caused quite a scene on Lord Legolas's final day in Lorien."

"I would not call it a scene…" Legolas knew that even if he quipped against the presumptuous rumors, Arys was merely their messenger, and she was under the king's protection—he trusted his father far more than he did the maid, but she was in his confidence, and so he was fairly certain that whatever he told the king would reach her ears one way or another. "And why should she leave? Life among the eldar will bring her health and longevity."

Thranduil looked toward Arys, swishing his wine in his glass. "Do you agree with that, my dear?"

The maid looked between them. "So long as she is a good person…"

"I, for one, believe that as long as she remembers her place among our kind, there is no reason for her presence not to be tolerated." Thranduil turned and narrowed his eyes at Legolas. "However, it is unwise to dwell on the passings of a mortal. Their lives are fleeting—quick as a wisp of air in the lifetime of a windswept tree. If the rumors are to be believed, these past months have brought her that much closer to her death—it is a waste of your own energy, Legolas."

The prince made a face at his father's statements. "I am well aware of her mortality, father, and all the ways you've taught me they should matter."

"Lessons you ought not forget," said Thranduil. "Nor should she—if she were here in Eryn Lasgalen, I might have had a word with her myself…"

"I don't think you'd need to," Arys suddenly said, arching a brow at the king. She looked as though she were sharing some deep consideration of the facts to the king. "I believe she is aware of the barriers between them…"

"Is she?" Again, Thranduil leaned toward her. "It is a rare gift for mortals to set aside their emotions and think pragmatically—it is their nature to be driven by instinct, however they might try to disguise it."

Arys actually rolled her eyes. "Well, you are the expert on abandoning emotion for pragmatism."

The king thinned his lips into a smile. "Shall I beg your pardon, or pretend you didn't say that at all—much less with a sneer?"

"Your highness," another messenger entered the room at that moment, looking between the prince and the king. "I was told you'd be here—this came for you from Lothlorien."

Legolas stared down at the tiny package that the courier held out to him. "Thank you," he murmured as he took it from him, immediately pulling it apart.

"From Lorien?" Thranduil mused. "I wonder what's inside…"

Legolas kept a calm demeanor as he pulled the wrappings apart. Inside was a small relic of Lorien—a leaflet of a gift which the royal Lord and Lady of Caras Galadhon often sent with the coming of autumn.

Something inside him loosened with disappointment. "It's nothing," he said, tossing the leaflet onto the king's desk.

Thranduil peered up at him. "Don't look so disappointed, son."

The prince, for once, was prepared to relinquish his composure and finally snap back at his father. But the moment he turned to do exactly that, the messenger returned to the room.

"Forgive me, your highness, I forgot something." He held out a small envelope with the seal of Lord Elrond. "From Imladris."

Imladris.

Legolas spared no decorum this time, snatching the envelope from the courier. "Have you anything else for me, or are you determined to continue this madness?"

The messenger—the poor boy—widened his eyes, no doubt surprised to be spoken to in such a manner by the prince. He glanced at the king, who passed a grave look between him and his son. "That was rude, Legolas," Thranduil addressed him sternly as Legolas tore open the letter, already seeing handwritten words through the thin parchment.

Your Highness,

That which keeps me in Lothlorien is no more. This does not come as a request for anything— in your position, I'd simply be offended not to be told. I will remain in Caras Galadhon for a time.

Best wishes to you.

Estel Undomiel

Legolas looked up from the letter and toward the courier. "Forgive me—I should not have spoken so harshly," he said considerably softer. "You said this letter came from Imladris?"

"Yes, my lord," the poor boy nodded.

"You're certain it's not from Lothlorien?"

"As certain as I can be, your highness."

The prince pressed his lips together, rereading the letter. Estel made a point to clarify that she was staying in Lothlorien—had she thought to fool him? The more pressing detail was the first line: That which keeps me in Lothlorien is no more.

It could only mean one thing.

"I leave for Imladris," Legolas said, stalking toward the door.

"I think not," Thranduil's voice cut through the air, halting him in place. "You have responsibilities here, Legolas. You cannot leave."

"I do not intend to be gone for long. I only mean to—"

"No." The king's eyes were hard, unyielding. "I do not care what business you have with that mortal girl, the coming of the season is at our doorstep and there are arrangements to be made—emissaries from other lands. You are needed here."

Legolas stared back at his father with a straight expression. "You're mistaken to think that Estel has something to do with this."

"Do you think me a fool?" Thranduil's own features darkened. "Remember your place, Legolas. Remember hers. There is no good to be had from friendships of any kind between mortals and the Eldar."

"I don't recall you making such sentiments when other mortals visited our lands," Legolas answered with restraint. "Please, excuse me."

Keeping a firm but graceful stride, the prince exited his father's chambers and crossed the bridges and paths of the Halls of Thranduil, slowing only when he came upon small study where Galion liked to work. The door was nestled between two waterfalls which streamed over the characteristic rock and wooden spires, moss growing everywhere the mist touched. The study was lit with the golden hue of the setting sun, more moss growing between the shelves along the walls.

Galion sat at a table at its far end, near a smaller one with wine and cakes and tea left atop it—the cakes half-eaten. He looked up from his books and parchments the moment Legolas walked in, striding across the room without slowing his graceful pace. "Legolas," he said with a smile. "My friend, I thought you were busy until—" The prince didn't even look at him. Instead, he floated straight to the decanter of wine, lifting it with the utmost grace and tipping it over the edge of the neighboring glass. "Legolas… are you alright?"

"Why does everyone keep asking me that?" he answered calmly as the glass filled to the halfway point. Then to the third-quarter point. When it was nearly full, Legolas brought it to his lips and sipped.

Galion furrowed a brow as he looked from the wine glass to his prince, wearing an expression that crossed concern with amused disbelief. "I could come up with a reason or two…"

Legolas sat and gazed out at the trees far beyond the window—the setting sun beyond the horizon. "I would prefer not to hear this from you, too."

"Hear what?"

A muscle ticked in his jaw. "If it's not clear to you, then I'm not going to give you ideas," Legolas said, parroting Estel's words from their final night at Methelda's cottage. He wondered what she meant by that.

Galion sat back with a heavy sigh. "Has this anything to do with Lady Estel?"

The prince looked at him, but did not answer immediately. "Why do you ask?"

"Because this mood of yours began the moment we departed from Lorien and has continued since then."

Legolas hesitated to answer. "It has something to do with her, in part… Someone we both care for has passed away."

"What? Who?"

"No one you would know," Legolas muttered, looking down at the wine glass. "She was a mutual friend of ours. Now, Estel has sent word to me of her passing, and father will not permit me to go to her."

Galion seemed to consider that a moment. "Why do you want to go to her?" he asked, his voice betraying his suspicions. "A letter should suffice—you are under no obligations to inquire after the Daughter of the Evenstar."

"I know what my obligations are."

"Then why go through the trouble?"

Legolas had been stroking the edge of the glass—he stopped. "Many reasons, I suppose." Though he couldn't quite name them, not even to himself. "I spent time with her in Lorien, though she was reluctant for anyone to know—"

"Yes, that much was obvious."

He continued, "Having a forged some kind of friendship, I cannot erase her tears from my mind." Legolas took a deep breath, relieved to say it out loud. "You can't imagine the frustration of it."

At that, Galion reared back. "You insult me, friend. To leave a maiden in tears—that is not something a gentleman forgets."

Legolas sighed, leaning his forehead against his hand atop the table. "I don't know what to do."

"If she wrote you, then you might start by answering her letter."

"She claimed to be staying in Lothlorien, but her message arrived from Imladris—clearly, she does not want my word to find her. And I cannot ride to her to change her mind." Galion did not answer immediately. When Legolas looked over at his friend, he bore the strangest expression. "What?"

"Nothing, I think," Galion said slowly, as though trying to convince himself more than the prince. "Legolas… you know that I have frequented Imladris on my own terms many times on behalf of your father. I must do so again before the Feast of Starlight—if you'd like, I may try to have a word with her myself to convey your worry."

Legolas lifted his gaze, then turned it to the piles of parchments Galion kept atop the table. "You can do more than that," he said as he lifted one off the top. The elf was silent as Legolas began to write,

Estel,

I received your letter and am deeply aggrieved by the news it's brought—you were right to inform me, I would have been deeply offended had you not.

I am to remain in the Greenwood until the end of autumn at the behest of my father. However, our last meeting weighs upon my conscience, even more so having read your letter. I have been restless and would be most relieved if you considered visiting Eryn Lasgalen. I will not force you to speak of our last meeting, but it would be mollifying to see that you are well—and to convey my apologies.

"Are you sure you want to do that?" Galion said, apparently peering across the table at the parchment. "Conveying your worry is not the same as inviting her to the kingdom."

Legolas arched a brow at him. "Yes, I'm sure."

Oddly enough, some tension inside him loosened as he continued through the letter,

There are few places in Middle Earth which could compare to the Greenwood, and you do not need to spend all your time in the Halls of Thranduil—I do not expect you to come on my account alone. You would find innumerable adventures in our vast kingdom. I hope you will consider it.

Sincerely yours,

Legolas Greenleaf, Prince of the Woodland Realm

When he was finished, Legolas thought twice of adding his title. But the ink was now upon the paper, and there was no going back. "I would appreciate if you delivered this for me, Galion," he said, folding it and standing to retrieve an envelope from one of the shelves of the study.

Galion furrowed a brow. "I won't be going for several weeks' more, Legolas. Would you not prefer to send it by courier?"

"I would prefer she see it in your hands," he said. "A courier would not convey the same message."

At that, his expression darkened. "And what message is that?"

"That I know she is not in Lothlorien," Legolas said. "And that I entrust this to you—you, who are no courier and could not be expect to travel onward between the realms for this to be delivered to her hands."

The elf furrowed a brow as he reached out to take the letter. "I doubt your father would approve…"

"My father does not command my heart."

Thank you all for reading! I'm sorry if this chapter was a bit lackluster. I'll be back home next week!