Kingsfoil [Thranduil] LOTR

Wonderful

Three thousand years ago...

His father had been laid to rest a week ago, and for the same amount of time, Thranduil ruled the Woodland Realm as its king.

He still favored sleeping in his old prince's chambers. He still felt awkward every time he placed that spiky crown atop his head. He did not relish holding audiences or sitting in his father's chair on the dais.

In truth, Thranduil was not adjusting to the role of being king very well.

When his final appointment drew to a close, Thranduil could not wait to leave the throne room. In fact, he jumped up so quickly from his seat, he startled the guards.

"I'll just be going to the king's—to my—study," he corrected himself. He practiced his best kingly descent down the dais steps and then austerely quit the room as dignified as one can, especially when that person is as impatient as Thranduil was at the time.

Thranduil's relief was short lived, unfortunately, for as soon as he entered his study, he was made instantly aware of another person lying in wait for him.

Lord Filron.

Thranduil swallowed back a groan as soon as he beheld the elf lord waiting studiously in the king's office, with one leg artfully crossed over the other.

Of all the elves in the kingdom, it had to be Filron. Known to be quite the fashionable dresser in court, Lord Filron was on the Elder Council and, despite his foppish wardrobe choices, was extremely sharp and influential.

Thranduil swept into the room, and Lord Filron immediately stood at his arrival.

"Your grace," he greeted him melodically. "I am simply staggered by how well you wear the crown—by how much you look like your father standing behind that desk!"

"Thank you, Lord Filron," Thranduil told him stiffly. "Was there something you wanted to discuss?" He was going to have to have a talk with the guards about who they let in to his private rooms. Taking a seat behind his father's massive beech wood desk, Thranduil bade Filron to sit as well.

"Everything has been such a whirl since your return," Filron began, "the news of the king's death, your ascension to the throne—and the members of the Elder Council wanted to assure you that you have our full support."

Thranduil manufactured a small smile. "That is most gracious of you, my lord. I, of course, welcome your support and look forward to the continuance of such an advantageous relationship." Actually, he wanted to throw Filron out the door and slam it shut, but like it not, he would need the Elder Council's support—at least for now.

Filron returned the king's smile, looking far more pleased with himself than any elf should have the right to look. "You are most gracious, my lord," he said and leaning forward, added "and please know that I happily offer you my counsel."

"You are too generous," the young king intoned, gritting his teeth.

"It would be my pleasure," returned Filron enthusiastically. "A young lord like yourself need not bury himself under such menial tasks! You should be out enjoying yourself, travelling, training, enjoying this hard-fought peace you have brought us!"

For a split second or perhaps even less, Thranduil's heart jumped at the chance, but it was only for a brief moment. He felt the weight of his father's crown upon his head and remembered his station, his duty. He attempted a laugh and shook his head. "Thank you for the offer, Filron, but my place is here."

For the first time since Thranduil stepped into the king's study, Filron's easy demeanor slipped, and his face hardened. "You cannot be serious, my lord. As prince, you rarely participated in court."