Thranduil

However with the way Côhithiel was studying him with something that seemed to reflect his own interest the only thing that would dissuade him from trying to understand it was her father.

It hadn't been the best of decisions to leave his hands free he realised for the longer she stared at him the less he was able to stand still. Down again he cast his gaze, eyelids lowered as he preened slowly at his clothing and picked at loose threads in the silk closest to his hands. Lucky she'd given him the opportunity to tie back his hair or his hands would be in it instead.

Thranduil hadn't realised how much time, however little in reality, had passed between being given the two names and Galadriel's voice cutting back in. He perked up a little and raised his head to look over at her, a brief distraction but a distraction nonetheless which meant a moment to recompose himself. It came with a modest smile as he looked between them, taking the time to backtrack over what had been said.

“I always did hear that Beleg was much more pleasant,” a curious and lilting reply. He hadn't known him too personally as their encounters had been brief; often it was Mablung out of the two who stayed closest to the city and their king. “And kind,” he added as an afterthought. Although it was Galadriel who spoke he kept his eyes fixed on the other female as she looked between the two helplessly. The voice that chattered at him from the back of his head about staring made no impact, he continued to concentrate almost strictly on the face he'd never seen until she finally spoke.

Oh. Had that been wrong to say? The lack of familiarity left him unable to properly read the tone of voice when the counter had been made. Surprise briefly crossed his features and it was that uncertainty that broke his focus and caused him to cast down his gaze and turn his head aside. It had been a little out of place to tease at a time like this, he reasoned with himself, but no matter; it had been meant lightly and he was sure he could easily apologise or slip away if it turned out he'd offended her.

Thranduil turned with a response ready when one of the three moved and closed his mouth instead upon realising which it had been. He watched her quietly, a little stiffly as she approached him—a stiffness needed in order to prevent himself from falling backward a step or two to escape the advance, features shifting again into something more curious. He looked down a little sharply when she offered out something in her hand, quickly back up to her then down again, before reaching without word to carefully take the item.

Ever since then Thranduil questioned their safety and those unwilling to leave, himself remaining only out of his love and worry for those that held their ground, for those closest to him. Having no battle training he had been unable to go to the aid of the warriors and he knew he'd still have little to offer later. Unfortunately, that may also be the only reason why he was still around to worry. It happened so fast... If nothing else, he remembered thinking, he could see to it that the others escaped. That they didn't suffer the same fate that their finest of captains had.

Then came word from the Sons of Fëanor which Dior left unanswered and Thranduil knew. He lingered still while slowly gathering will to leave; come then he knew his word would have little influence on the others, namely his father, and received little advice in that decision. It delayed him from acting for he knew not where to go or how to find what he sought as he had never left the Girdle or come close to its boundaries. He had never been on his own.

At least when they came he could see to it that Oropher was less stubborn. He'd managed to grab very little, focusing more on finery he thought they could trade for shelter and taking only enough time to cover usually bare feet. The boots later would show minor wear from their travels, only just worse off than his clothing. A long trip though it may have been they made it to Lindon with relative ease, settling in a little easier in the following days when it had been made known that aid followed closely behind in their path.

As it turned out he should have grabbed more wearable clothing than court garb; heavily embroidered silks were not the best of things but he cared little that he continuously snagged the threads on the basket he carried or wrinkled the sleeves beyond repair by pinning them up around his elbows. All the skill he had in life thus far lay in handmade inks and while that could, maybe, eventually be of use but right now that small talent held nothing to offer. So he took up odd tasks for the time being—today he was making rounds with food items as he made his way through the other survivors, he better off than most.