Work Text:
“ What have you done to your hair?” Thranduil said, the disdain evident in his voice. “I thought you, being my son, would know better.”
Legolas simply gave him a somewhat bemused look. “Isn’t it trendy?”
“Trendy?” Thranduil glared. “What is this trendy supposed to mean?”
“I guess one might explain it as what is current fashion-wise.”
“We aren’t the race of Men where fashion trends change with each generation,” Thranduil said, then paused. “And that wasn’t how I wanted to put that.”
“You mean to say we aren’t the race of Men where our lives are short, and our attention spans are likewise short, so they preoccupy themselves with menial things such as fashion to emphasis their status in an ever-growing community, whereas each of us Elves knows our place.”
“And you, Elfling, are a prince and should know your place,” Thranduil said, his facial features contorting in a manner that amused Legolas. “And even the commoners among our people aren’t—that.”
“The short hair,” Legolas said, still smirking. “If it makes anything better, this is the result of me being over-exuberant and in need of a healer because even as an Elf, I should know not to overestimate my abilities.”
“No, that doesn’t make things better!” Thranduil snapped. “That makes it worse.”
“I think not cutting the other side to match would have made things even worse,” Legolas retorted, not caring what his father thought, let alone how walking out at that moment would be perceived by the Elven king.
