Teithoron Tegilbor looked up from the parchment he was reading and glanced over at Legelion who was sitting in the chair opposite, looking uncomfortable and fidgeting anxiously. The scribe smiled to himself; oft did he forget that the boy and his folk were unused to chairs and preferred to sit on mats and cushions upon the floors of their dwellings, or upon the green grass of their woodland home.
   The page he held was written in the boy's own hand, the product of his years of teaching the young Green-elf the arts of reading and writing in the cirth devised by Daeron in his own homeland of Doriath many long years before.
   'It is well-written,' he said to Legelion's obvious relief, 'but you try too hard.'
   'What do you mean?' the boy asked.
   'You strive to write in the high style as did the scribes of old, but in doing so you lose the merriment and mischief that are your nature.'
   '"Mischief"?' he exclaimed. 'I know not of what you speak!'
   'Indeed? Was it not your mischief in this very room that first brought us together and forged our friendship at the start?' He was referring to the day four years prior when he had caught the twelve-year-old child in the act of stealing a book from his chamber here in the Halls of the Elvenking.
   Legelion laughed, unashamed by this old offence which was now a standing jest between the old Sinda and his young Laegel student.
   'You speak justly,' he replied, 'but only of my ancient misdeed. For surely the manner in which scribes once wrote is more befitting for my chronicle?' Then he frowned, his eyes downcast. 'Besides, Echeleb says no one will ever read my words, so it matters not.'
   'And how would he know this?' asked Teithoron. 'Is your father's father blessed with the gift of foresight?'
   Legelion laughed again, his eyes merry once more and sparkling in the candlelight.
   'Nay,' he said. 'His arrows always fly true, but his words oft miss the mark!'
   'Then let his words not trouble your thought. But you speak of your chronicle... what chronicle would this be then?'
   All at once the child became shy, an emotion so uncommon for him that Teithoron was intrigued, but he did not press his question. He knew that if he but waited, Legelion would give a truthful answer; thus he sat in silence as the boy studied his small hands laying in his lap.
   'It is my heart's desire to one day write the tale of the days of my life lived in the greenwood,' he said at last. 'I know not why this is; a simple dream for a simple Elf, I guess.'
   'That is a noble dream,' said the scribe, 'and you are aught but simple! And who is to say that you shall spend the rest of your days here in Mirkwood. Mayhap you will one day perform deeds of great renown that will be sung in tales by the bards in the great halls of kings!'
   At this, the boy laughed merrily and sprang over Teithoron's table like a deer, and he clasped the seated scribe in a fierce hug.
   'Thank you, Teithoron!' he said, and scampered out the door towards his unknown fate.

*         *         *

It should be noted that this tale is set in the 2981st year of the Third Age, when Legelion was but sixteen years of age; also that these anecdotes are not in strict chronological order.

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