Kingsfoil [Thranduil] LOTR

Concerned

Three hundred years ago...

Thranduil smelled it before he turned the corner—the sharp tang of iron, blood in the air. He braced himself for the worst when he crossed the threshold and beheld Narylfiel draped piteously over the settee, an enormous raw steak pressed across her right eye, from her cheekbone across to her brow. She opened the uncovered eye and squinted at the king.

"Don't even say it," she rasped out, and then closed her good eye.

"I wasn't going to," said Thranduil as he crossed the room to peer down at her. "Do you think that slab of meat on your face is helping?"

"It's nice and cool, and my eye is throbbing," she told him, "so yes, it's better than nothing."

The healer in Thranduil doubted it. "Let me see."

"I would rather not," Narylfiel said weakly.

He appraised her carefully. She still wore her warrior training uniform, and its sleeveless cut did little to hide the scrapes and bruises mottling her arms blue and purple. "Hard practice today?"

Her good eye cracked open. "It was nothing I couldn't handle, Thranduil."

"Clearly," he said and paused. "Who were you sparring against? Who did this to you?" He tried to keep the edge out of his voice. Thranduil knew first hand how difficult and oftentimes brutal the training was for guards, but that did not lessen his regret for seeing the proof written across his dear friend's skin.

She squinted at him, noting his disapproval through the puffy slit of her still good eye. "It's nothing I can't handle," she repeated weakly. "Please."

"Was Legolas there?" Thranduil asked.

Narylfiel did not answer.

Thranduil later found his son making a relentless number of long distance shots out in the practice fields, his hair pulled back, clothes dusty. Legolas did not wait to see if his previous arrow even struck the target before he spun away, drew another from his quiver, and fired at the next bullseye. His son moved with a punishing grace and skill, a far cry from his days as his father's bookkeeper, and more than a little part of Thranduil wished he had tried harder to keep Legolas in the accounts office. But, he was his father's son, a warrior, and Thranduil was proud of the way Legolas had risen through the ranks of the Forest Guard to earn his place as one of its captains.

When Legolas cleared the row, ending his last shot with a perfectly timed dive and roll move, Thranduil spoke up.

"Legolas."

His son turned.

"Impressive shooting," Thranduil noted.

Legolas inclined his head, looking for the first time at how the series of shots landed on their targets. "I could move faster across the field," he told his father, "and as you can see, my aim off the turn still needs work."

Thranduil appraised the targets. A few of the arrows were slightly left of the bullseye.

"Yes, but still impressive nonetheless, Legolas." Thranduil noted the empty field, the sun dipping below the tree line. "What has you out here practicing so late? Your wife will be wondering what happened to you."

Legolas leaned his longbow against his side before peeling off his arm guard with a sigh. His eyes drifted to the sunset and then over to the sparring ring, just left of his father. ""Go ahead," Legolas prompted him. "Tell me why you're really out here, Father."