“I am yet silvertongued enough to parry most of your quips, my son.” For all that his Silvans favored their meat unseasoned, Thranduil would ever prefer culture and spice. He suspected he would eat now for fuel rather than pleasure—so be it. He had more important matters. Namely, gathered the elves and righting the ills that had been forced on them. He need not worry about luxuries, beyond those that would help underline his position—who he was, what he could do, though his hair and bearing, his natural state as Quendi did much for that, for himself and his son.

As always, having Legolas by his side—at his right hand—comforted him. The idea of being here without him, of not knowing where Legolas was would have put him in a fouler temper. Iluvatar was kind, to give him the comfort of his son—or to give Legolas the comfort of his father.

When they reached the keep, Thranduil held the door for his son, shutting it securely behind them to keep the wind and snow firmly outside. Off came the hood, the gloves—secured in a pocket of the coat—and he held the cloak loosely in his arms. "As for fruit, perhaps I might hope for apples, mean and mealy though they might be.”