“Archer. Perhaps Sure-Hand.”
“I would not name him for a weapon, or skill at arms. He is so fair a babe!”
“But I like Sure-Hand. Or perhaps Long Spear.”
“My sweet little flower…”
“Maid-children are flowers, my queen; this fine lad will be a warrior.”
“I seem to remember, my king, a certain spring festival, where you made merry, and we traded garlands of bright flowers entwined with new leaves; and that was the day we decided to make this child.”
“Aaah-aaah!”
“What is it, little one?”
“Look, my lady; how boldly he reaches up, into the wind!”
“Yes, but what did he seize? Nay, my son, do not suck on your prize until I see what it is.”
“Why, that leaf is twice the size of his hand, and he so young yet. He has a bowman’s grip, strong but careful.”
“And brave, like his father. The wind showers him with leaves; and he laughs and takes one for his own.”
“Sure-Hand.”
“I think not, my lord and love. The forest has claimed him, and so he should be named.”
“Perhaps you are right. We should not deny our son the woodland’s favor.”
“Our little green-leaf!”
“Legolas. Legolas Greenleaf.”