He played with one of the rings on his hand—some were heirlooms, from his father and grandfather, and some were merely beautiful. And valuable. No great loss, to trade them.

“We will eat well enough, my son, if all we trade for is but salt and bread.” Legolas could bow hunt for fish, and Thranduil was a decent enough cook—hot coals were all it took to bake fish, and there were roots that could be eaten in the winter, if found. “No wine, I fear. The rest of whatever coin I procure ought to go to our cousins, and to keep you in iron arrowheads.”

Ones best suited for piecing iron armor. Hunting could be done with bone or simply whittled ones. A smile, he reached out and brushed a lock of hair behind Legolas’ ear, tender and affectionate. “You do not mind providing for your poor father? Were that I still possessed an ounce of skill with the bow.”

That had been lost with his sight at Dagorlad.