Thranduil was still struggling to find words, an effort which appeared to be a losing battle. Part of the problem, of course, was that he was still entirely lost as to what had just happened, and any rational explanation seemed far, far off. Hard enough to explain if it had been Legolas, and it had been he who had acted.

Well, he had been apparently spirited to a new place by magic, that was a beginning. But if this was a result of magic as well, one that might compel him to do anything so outrageous, it was not only vaguely horrifying, but also quite worrisome. The master of such an enchantment would in theory be an enemy, and a formidable one at that. And it was only a theory, for all that it made as much sense as anything else he'd been able to think of thus far.

None of this did anything, really, to help him find any words in response to what he had just done, but he had to find something. So, after a moment, he spoke in some language that flowed like water. "Forgive me, Legolas. I do not know why I did that."