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Thranduil stood stock still at Gandalf’s words. He had gone deaf and ignorant to the world around him in that moment. He could not bring himself to acknowledge the raging battle that continued just a few hundred meters away.
Which would she have you value more?
Such a simple question, that Thranduil knew the answer to. Had always known the answer to. His son. His precious Legolas. He knew. But that clarity had selfishly and shamefully been hidden away in the deepest corner of his abused heart. Thranduil knew.
He stared ahead to where Legolas had been standing minutes ago. Where he had turned his back on his father and walked away. With good reason, Thranduil thought. Thranduil felt betrayal bubbling in his chest, that his son would choose Tauriel over his own father. He knew, however, that it was his own doing and further shamed himself for thinking such an emotion was warranted. How he hated himself in that moment.
Thranduil began taking a few steps, deciding he needed to follow them, to help his son in any capacity. While he held no love for the dwarves in peril on Raven Hill, he realised he would never be able to live with himself if he did not aid them now. If Greenwood’s Prince was willing to fight on their behalf, why not would Greenwood’s King? Thranduil wordlessly took a few more steps, until a voice he recognised as Feren’s broke him out of his trance.
“My King! We have received word from Lord Tirithon. The healers were attacked and gravely injured before Tirithon’s regiment could intervene. My Lord only three of the fifteen are well enough to tend to the wounded.” Feren’s voice shook with panic. Thranduil could feel the anxiety radiating off of the Elven warriors behind him. Of all the things that could go ill in a battle, this was one of the worst. Thranduil felt conflicted for a few seconds, the father in him desperately wanted to follow his child, but the king knew he could not in good conscious abandon his wounded when he could aid them. He took a deep and shaky inhale, before turning to face Feren and the rest of Feren’s company.
“Have your second in command take half your company to Raven Hill, aid those there in whatever way they can.” Thranduil ordered. Feren nodded and signalled for the elleth directly behind him to do as their King commanded. She nodded, saluted Feren and bowed to Thranduil, taking half of the company as she began to lead the warriors towards Raven Hill. Thranduil wordlessly prayed that no harm would befall those warriors as they marched away. Feren stood at attention once more, what was left of his company equally attentive. “Take me to the wounded, I shall help the healers myself.” Thranduil spoke gravely.
“Of course my King, this way.” Feren said extending his hand to where Mithrandir had previously been standing. Thranduil nodded and took one last look to where Legolas had walked away. It would be a long and strenuous night for everyone involved in this war.
They walked in hurried steps towards the Elven camp. It had blessedly remained untouched by the onslaught of orcs, meaning it was relatively safe for all those who sought help. Elves, Men and even Dwarves alike. A large open space had been converted into a make shift hospital, as a tent shielded the wounded from the outside. As Thranduil approached it, he could sense the wounded, their anguish and pain. It made his chest constrict the closer he went.
At the entrance, several guards were stationed along with Lord Tirithon, a Sindar Thranduil had known since they were both adolescent in Doriath. Tirithon saw Thranduil and the other warriors approaching, immediately walking towards them. Thranduil noticed his disheveled appearance upon closer inspection.
“My lord Thranduil, I am relieved to see you well.” Tirithon said grasping Thranduil bicep. Thranduil grasped his tightly.
“And I you mellon-nin. The healers, what happened?” Thranduil asked. Tirithon frowned deeply.
“They were ambushed on their way up, we managed to fend off the offending orcs, but the damage was already done. Two have since passed from their wounds.” Thranduil inhaled sharply. “The three who came out relatively unscathed have been doing their best alone, but I fear it is not enough sire.” Tirithon’s voice shook as Feren’s had. Thranduil looked in the direction of the makeshift hospital.
“How many are wounded?” Thranduil asked. However strong the part of him was that did not want to hear the answer, he needed to know.
“Well over three hundred my King and more coming in every minute.” Tirithon sounded utterly lost. Thranduil empathised with him all too much.
“Then I will put my own skills to use.” Thranduil said as he turned to Feren. “Find anyone with basic knowledge on field medicine and send them to me. With the rest, find as many wounded as you can, there is no time to lose.” Feren nodded quickly and turned back to his company. As Thranduil turned to walk towards the tent, Tirithon grasped his bicep once more.
“Thranduil, you cannot possibly hope to heal every wounded elf with just yourself and the other healers. Especially if you wish to heal their
spirits. You are the only one present with that gift and you have not done deep healing in years mellon-nin!” Tirithon exclaimed in complete panic. Thranduil sighed.
“I refuse to have their spirits broken for my idiotic mistakes. I was a healer before I was a King. I care not if my people are saved at the cost my own well-being. Their lives will always come before mine.” Thranduil said sternly. His gaze was penetrating and ice cold, none would dare try to challenge his decision. His intentions were clear and Tirithon understood it perfectly. Tirithon let go of Thranduil’s bicep and watched him disappear into the tent.
Feren returned to Tirithon’s side, with two warriors behind him. Tirithon felt disappointment wash over him. Only two out of a possible thirty.
“He is going to exhaust himself if he is to do this.” Tirithon said solemnly. “Only two with basic knowledge of field medicine?” He asked Feren tiredly. Feren nodded sadly.
“Yes. Unfortunately, our best is Tauriel, but she has forsaken her duties.” He sounded disappointed, betrayed and most of all tired. Tirithon closed his eyes and let out a shaky sigh. “To think that her loyalties are to a dwarf she met only days ago.” Feren continued.
Inside the tent, Thranduil had removed every bit of armour he had been wearing, including his crown and set it to the side. He then proceeded to take off his outer coat, leaving him only in a loose white long sleeved shirt, his dark trousers and his boots. He needed to be able to move freely. One of the three healers approached him and began recounting what had happened and what she believed needed to be done. Thranduil listened attentively as he put his long silvery white hair in a pony tail around the middle of his head so it was out of his face. He took a deep breath, standing next to the frightened healer, absorbing the horrific scene before them. Thranduil pushed his many fears to the back of his mind and set to work on the first soldier he could reach, recalling what he had learned so many years ago in Doriath.
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Legolas had to turn away from the sight of Tauriel clutching the dwarf Kili’s cold body. It hurt too much. Her despair was too much for Legolas to continue witnessing. The battle was won at a terrible cost, Legolas soon realised. Thorin Oakenshield and both his nephews Fili and Kili, gone from this world so soon and so violently. It was truly tragic.
Legolas’ thoughts soon wandered to his own kin, the many Elves who had fought this battle, and the elf who had lead them. While Legolas harboured much resentment towards his father, he could not help but finally understand his actions. The world was a far darker place than Legolas had previously thought and Thranduil was right in a way to stay isolated. Legolas shook his head absentmindedly. That does not excuse his actions towards Tauriel and the dwarves, he thought to himself.
Legolas suddenly heard footsteps coming his way. They were light and precise. Elves then. He released his grip on his weapon he didn’t realised he had tightened and waited for the elves to appear. Two soon came into view. An elleth named Valadhiel and an elf named Daeron. They were friends of Legolas’ and he was relieved to see them alive.
“Are you well hir-nin Legolas?” Valadhiel asked cautiously.
“Yes I am fine. Are you both uninjured?” Legolas responded. Valadhiel nodded.
“We are unharmed, as is the rest of the company that came with us.” Daeron said hoarsely. “The battle is won hir-nin. Though at a great cost.” Legolas nodded sadly.
“Yes, the King Under the Mountain will be sorely missed by his people, as will his heirs.” Legolas said his gaze slightly vacant. Valadhiel and Daeron looked confused at his words and looked at each other for a moment.
“We did not mean the dwarves, while that is a tremendous loss. We meant our own army. Hir-nin, well over half of the survivors are wounded in some way.” Daeron said stepping closer to Legolas.
“The healers were wounded themselves, most are unable to tend to anyone else. I was to lead half of Feren’s company to aid you, he and the King went to aid the three able healers with the rest of the company.” Valadhiel explained. “Those who know the basics of healing are to return to help, as scarce as they are.”
Legolas nodded, absorbing all of the information. How many were wounded? How many were dead? Had his father been wounded after he had left with Tauriel? So many questions raced through his mind. Valadhiel and Daeron looked at him expectedly, silently hoping that their Prince would return with them, regardless of what had happened with the King. Legolas looked up at them.
“Lead the way, I will help you find the wounded.”
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Bard was beyond relieved that the battle was won. He had to remind himself of that fact every so often. It was late at night and all the involved parties were taking much needed rest and recovering. While the cost was far too great, Bard felt optimistic about the future. Dale would be rebuilt and his people would finally be able prosper. That certainty kept Bard’s energy up at this later hour in the night.
He was nearing the Elven camp where many of the wounded elves and men had been sent to be tended to. Bard had hoped to offer his thanks and his help to King Thranduil after the aiding the people of Laketown the way he did. A service Bard desperately wanted to return.
The Elven camp was not at all like Bard expected. Elves were running back and forth from various tents, most out of armour, carrying objects that Bard could not immediately recognise. The officers were talking amongst each other, discussing something in Elvish in panicked tones. Bard noticed the many guards stationed at the entrance to a large tent. Bard could only assume that this was the makeshift hospital he had been told about. He took one last look around him and made his way towards the large tent.
As he walked he was intercepted by an elf. Bard recognised him as Galion, King Thranduil’s closest aid.
“Lord Bard, we are honoured by your arrival, what can we do for you?” Galion asked politely, giving him a curt smile.
“I wish to help you in anyway I can, as thanks to the aid you and your kin provided my people in our time of great need.” Bard explained. Galion smiles warmly this time, before tilting his head to the side slightly.
“Do you have any skill in healing my Lord?” Galion asked beginning to lead Bard towards the large tent. Bard thought for a moment.
“I know a little on how to clean and wrap wounds, but not so sophisticated as your arts.” Bard admitted slightly concerned. Galion sighed as they reached the entrance of the healing tent.
“That will have to do. We are sorely short staffed, there are only three of our fifteen healers and King Thranduil who are professionally trained. If you are up for the task, they can use the extra hands.” Galion said sadly, stopping at the entrance. Bard pondered on what the elf had just said. Only three of fifteen healers? And Thranduil was a trained healer? Bard looked at Galion once more.
“Of course I will help, but I did not realise that Thranduil healed.” Bard said rubbing his hands together. Galion nodded in understanding and began to push the entrance to the tent open as he started to speak.
“No most do not know, nor would they guess upon meeting him. King Thranduil was trained as a healer before he even became Prince of the Greenwood. When Doriath still stood, he started learning when we were very young, excelling at it really.” Galion spoke with such fondness for his oldest and dearest friend. Bard listened carefully, fascinated. They entered the tent and Bard was immediately hit with the severity of the situation. Dozens of wounded soldiers lay across the floor, writhing in pain from their many injuries. They varied from crushed bones to severe blood loss. It had been carnage. “Thranduil was second only to Lord Elrond of Imladris and still is, however when Doriath was destroyed, he had to give up any prospect of becoming a healer by profession. Instead, kingship became his profession.” Bard nodded in understanding and quickly started shedding his outer layer, knowing he would need to be able to move around freely. As Galion took his coat from him, Bard scanned the room for the Elven monarch. It was difficult to spot him among the many bloodied and wounded Elves. When he did spot Thranduil, he almost did not believe his eyes and had to do a double take.
Thranduil was dressed only in a white shirt that had the sleeves rolled up, dark trousers and boots. He wore no crown and his hair was sloppily braided and pulled over one shoulder. Bard could not help but cringe inwardly at the amount of blood that covered the Elvenking. His white shirt was stained in varying shades of red. The rolled up sleeves must have been rolled up recently as they looked damp. Thranduil also had specks of red in his silver white hair. And his hands. His hands were almost dark red with blood, covering him from finger tip to mid forearm. Thranduil’s complexion was so pale it looked almost grey, his eyes slightly sunken and dark. He was far removed from the extraordinary being he had witnessed slay orcs earlier in the day. It was unsettling to say the least.
“How long has he been at this?” Bard asked Galion, rolling up his own sleeves. Galion paled slightly at the question.
“Almost eight hours I think, without any reprieve. He refuses to stop, even when the other healers stop to take a rest.” Galion said. Bard nodded, simply staring at the scene before him. He had his work cut out for him it would seem. Galion and Bard were both brought out from their thoughts when the wounded soldier Thranduil was tending to started to scream and writhe violently. He had his hands pressed on the deep open wound on the soldier’s stomach that was bleeding profusely.
Thranduil took a moment to lightly wipe the sweat off of his forehead with the back of his hand. He held it there for a moment as he shook with effort trying to steal his nerves. Then he shouted.
“Someone hold him down! I need him still!”He yelled looking around the tent desperately. Immediately, Feren and two other female elves headed their king’s command and held the poor soldier by the legs and shoulders. Thranduil then pressed something that Bard could not see and proceeded to chant something that Bard could not understand. The solider began to writhe and scream even more, the process of healing clearly hurting tremendously. The three elves held on tight however, keeping the wounded elf mostly still as Thranduil healed him. It took a few minutes, but the screaming and thrashing subsided, until the soldier fell unconscious with a deep sigh of relief.
The tension bled out of the elves for a moment and Thranduil sat back, seemingly drained. Feren quickly stood up and kneeled by his king, putting his hand on his shoulder to steady him. Bard thought he heard Feren ask Thranduil if he wished to continue. Thranduil closed his eyes for a moment and inhaled deeply. Bard saw how Thranduil’s hands shook and how his breathing was uneven. And yet, when Thranduil opened his eyes, he nodded at Feren and continued to tend to the unconscious elf, his hands steady once more.
Bard looked to Galion for a short moment, seeing the concern etched on his face as he watched the scene unfold. The atmosphere was solemn and bloody, every soul laying in the tent severely injured in some way. Bard steeled his own nerves and went to a patient that he could tend to.
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As the sun began to rise in the morning after the battle, the Elves, Men and Dwarves had finally settled. The Elven wounded were mostly tended to. Thranduil and three unharmed healers, along with the aid of a dozen soldiers and Bard, managed to tend to the majority of the wounded. Less and less injured were being brought in, allowing the healers to have a reprieve.
As Thranduil was binding the leg of an elleth, Ninniachel was her name, the daughter of one of his council men, his mind wandered. Thranduil forgot how long he had been tending to the injured, all he knew was that night had come and gone and a new day was beginning.
His chest was so constricted with anxiety and despair that it was painful. Too many had died, both on the battlefield and under his care. Some of the wounded elves had simply been too damaged for Thranduil to be able to save. It deeply depressed him, feeling ashamed that he could not save all those he tried to help.
He had felt helpless in those moments, unable to do anything but hold his warrior’s hands and ease their passing as best he could.
He reassured them that they would be safe in the Halls of Mandos, that they would find peace.
He had smiled down sadly at them, telling them that they served their kingdom well, that he was proud of them.
He had vowed to each and every elf who passed that he would protect their loved ones, help their families when he could not save the elf in front of him.
He had seen the relief in their tired eyes, how they proclaimed that they were honoured to die in service of Greenwood the Great, to die in service of its greatest King. Thranduil did not feel as such in those moments.
And as each of them passed from Middle Earth, Thranduil felt as though his heart was being stabbed and he held back sobs that threatened to break from his chest.
Far too many had died and Thranduil’s spirit was slowly breaking under the despairing pressure. It reminded him of all those he could not save when Doriath was sacked and what was left of the Sinda fled their home. It brought him back to Dagorlad, where he returned to the Greenwood, not a Prince, but a King, fatherless and with only a third of their army. And now it was clear that the second coming of darkness was not far behind this battle, meaning that the Greenwood would be plunged into a war for freedom yet again. Thranduil did not know his fae would be able to survive, so much loss of life, life that he desperately wanted to preserve. Thranduil knew however that isolation was no longer an option, that much was clear to him.
Before his thoughts could spiral further, Thranduil felt a hand on his shoulder. He shook his thoughts away and looked up. He saw Galion, his ever faithful Galion, staring down at him in obvious concern. Behind him was Lord Tirithon, who radiated anxiety in waves. Thranduil turned back to Ninniachel, who looked upon her King through tired eyes, silently thanking him, for she was too exhausted to speak. Thranduil allowed his blood soaked hand to hover over her brow willing her eyes to close.
“Post, n- eithel ad- Ninniachel.” Thranduil spoke impossibly softly, the lightest of glows emitting from his palm as the words were said. Ninniachel nodded ever so slightly before her eyes closed and all tension drained from her body. Her breathing became deep and even after a few moments. Thranduil sighed in relief and looked up at Galion and Tirithon.
“Why do you stand over me with such concern? I am not wounded.” Thranduil said forcing his voice to remain steady and intimidating like it always was. Galion and Tirithon looked at each other for a moment then back to their King.
“Thranduil you have been working non-stop for nearly seventeen hours, this is not healthy, you must rest.” Tirithon said kneeling down next to him and grasping Thranduil’s shoulder. Thranduil’s eyes darkened and he inhaled sharply.
“I am fine. There are more wounded that need tending to.” Thranduil said sternly. He quickly made to stand up, wanting to prove he could continue. A wave of exhaustion hit him unexpectedly when he rose to his full height. Thranduil suddenly became aware of his over tired limbs, a bone deep soreness brought on by lack of sleep or food. His head began to somehow pound and spin all at once, accompanied by a sharp pain behind his eyes. Thranduil’s stomach convulsed and he felt like vomiting, though he doubted anything would come up. He closed his eyes tightly against all the bodily pain and he started to heave slightly. He was about to topple over when two sets of hands steadied him from either side of him. Thranduil opened his eyes and looked down at his hands. He nearly cried out at how bloody they were, not realising until now.
“Valar be damned Thranduil you are very clearly not fine! You have spent all of your energy and have not so much as taken a break since the beginning of the battle! Our people also need you well.” Tirithon put much emphasis on the last sentence, gripping Thranduil tightly. Both Galion and Tirithon came into his line of vision, almost forcing him to look at them. “Thranduil four of the wounded healers are well enough to help now because of you. Please let them do their duty. Lord Bard and the other soldiers will be here as well.”
Thranduil took a moment to process their words. He looked down at his bloodied hands once again, they screamed horror and despair at him the longer he stared. The blood reached his elbows now, staining every available part of his skin. The urge to wretch became much stronger. He had to get rid of this blood, the blood of his people. He took a shaky breath and looked back and forth between his two oldest friends. He was not fine. Thranduil admitted defeat and nodded in agreement. Tirithon and Galion became visibly relieved. The last thing they needed was an over exhausted Thranduil trying to fight their help, from their experience it never went well.
Thranduil felt something heavy drape over his shoulders and recognised that it was his velour cape that he wore into battle. It lacked the shoulder armour however, rendering it lighter in weight. For that he was grateful, as he realised his shaking legs could barely hold his own weight. Thranduil vaguely heard Galion speaking to who he thought was Feren. Then he became aware of Tirithon saying something to him that he did not quite catch.
“I am sorry, say again?” Thranduil said softly, turning his head towards Tirithon.
“I said that Galion and Feren will take you back to your rent where you can rest. They will make sure no one disturbs you mellon-nin.” Tirithon said cautiously. Thranduil vaguely nodded at his words and that is when Feren replaced Tirithon at his side. Together, Galion and Feren began leading Thranduil out of the large tent, blessedly slowly to accommodate Thranduil’s over tired body. Thranduil could not help but glance at the side with the elves who had passed, the sheets covering them causing an endless void to fill Thranduil’s chest. He then manifested itself in his mind. His eyes widened and he wrenched himself from Galion and Feren’s grips.
“Tirithon, find a way to bring the dead home to the Greenwood. I refuse to bury my people in these accursed lands.” Thranduil’s voice sounded tired and worn, but no less kingly and stern. All of the conscious wounded stared at their King. Tirithon looked at Thranduil sadly and bowed.
“I will find a way Aran-nin.” At that Thranduil smiled sadly and allowed Galion and Feren to guide him out of the tent once more. Before exiting, Thranduil straightened his back and steeled his face. The three of them walked through the courtyard toward’s Thranduil’s tent that looked over the Lonely Mountain. They passed by a dozen soldiers as they went, all bowing and saluting their king. Thranduil bowed his head in return at every soldier.
“Legolas, did your company find him?” Thranduil asked softly, his voice thick with worry. Feren turned to him, his demeanour optimistic.
“Yes hir-nin they did. He was well when they came across him. Last I heard he was aiding Valadhiel and Daeron in finding the wounded.” Feren said squeezing Thranduil’s shoulder reassuringly.
“You are sure he was not injured?” Thranduil asked slightly shaken. Feren nodded quickly.
“Yes my king I am sure, I saw him myself a few hours ago.” At that Thranduil nodded, his mind somewhat more at peace. The entire time he had been tending to the injured, a voice in the back of his mind and his heart screamed about Legolas. He had been constantly worried about his son’s wellbeing, hoping and even praying that he was unharmed, that Legolas would not have to be one of his patients. He never found a moment to ask about his son, so his mind had wandered to dark places, making his emotions run rampant.
By the time they reached the king’s tent, Thranduil was shaking so much he practically vibrated. He felt too cold and too warm at the same time and his legs were going to collapse at any moment. He felt the sting of tears behind his eyes and he willed himself not to let them fall. Galion took a few steps ahead to push the rent open, allowing Feren to guide Thranduil inside. One dim lantern was lit in the dark tent, bathing the three elves in golden light. Feren sat Thranduil down on his throne and went to help Galion get supplies for Thranduil to clean his hands and arms. He kept himself as still as possible, not trusting his body or his emotions to work in his favour. He kept his gaze firmly fixed on the table across the space, holding his tears back with all his willpower. Galion and Feren came into view once more, one carrying a large bowl of water and the other several towels. They kneeled on either side of him and seemingly wanted to start helping Thranduil with his blood soaked hands, but he stopped them.
“I-I will do it myself... go and help others.” Thranduil said weakly. How he hated the way his voice wavered. Galion and Feren looked up at him with obvious worry. They were extremely reluctant to leave him alone. Thranduil knew this so he pressed on. “Please, I n-need to be alone... for a little while at l-least.” Galion and Feren nodded, leaving the supplies on the ground at Thranduil’s feet and standing up. Feren bowed.
“I will stand watch Aran-nin.” Feren affirmed as he stepped out of the tent. Galion put his hand on Thranduil’s shoulder and squeezed it lightly.
“Do not hesitate to shout for me if you need. You do not need to be alone with your grief mellon.” Galion insisted. Thranduil looked at his faithful butter and smiled sadly. He nodded and with that Galion exited the tent, leaving Thranduil alone.
The crashing wave of emotion was instantaneous. A heavy sob escaped his aching chest as he lowered himself off of his throne and onto the ground. He let out a few despaired cries before the tears started cascading down his cheeks. His elbows rested on his thighs and he gripped his hair with his blood stained hands as his chest heaved and shook with anguished sobs. He took shaky and uneven breaths through his sobs, trying to calm himself, but to no avail. He was haunted by his mistakes from the last few days, as well as others from several years past.
He felt every Elven life lost, every injury, every cry of despair from those who had lost a loved one. All because he brought them to the cursed land, that damned mountain. And for what? He thought to himself, gems as cold as my own heart. Precious life lost for his pride and vanity, for a memory of someone, even though she had already left him with a gift far more precious. Legolas’s angered face came to the forefront of his mind. How he had ruined his poor child. Ruined his relationship seemingly beyond repair. Thranduil was sure that being run through with an orc blade would hurt less than the terrifying prospect of his own child not wanting anything to do with his father. A particularly painful sob wracked his chest at that thought. Thranduil had betrayed his wife’s dying wish by not loving his son as he should have and for that he hated himself.
Thranduil sat up and his hands fell into his lap. Tears kept streaming down his face, this no signs of stopping. Thranduil looked down at his bloodied hands once more, feeling then droplets of tears falling off his chin and into his hands. His hands would likely be stained red for some time, a reminder of his many failings. A reminder of all the lives that had been lost in this battle, of all those he was unable to save in the healing tent, of all those who would forever be haunted by their injuries. It was a reminder of his selfishness and his failings as both a father and a king. The pit of self hatred grew and grew until he could no longer stand to look at the redness.
Thranduil plunged his hands into the bowl of freezing water, trying furiously to wash the blood of his people away. It was now that he wished that things were different, that Doriath was never sacked, that Oropher and himself were never elected to rule the Silvan elves, that his beloved wife had not perished leaving him and Legolas with no family but each other. Most of all he wished he was not king, that the Sindar and Silvan elves alike would not trust him to lead them and protect them. Thranduil sobbed harder when the cold water became red as he continued to scrubbed his hands aggressively. But the red stain on his hands and arms would not disappear.
Thranduil sat back in defeat, letting his hands fall
into had lap once more. He closed his eyes tightly, feeling more and more tears fall through his closed lids. His lips pulled past his clamped teeth as he struggled not to be heard by those outside. He took a shaky breath and looked around the tent. Thranduil leaned his head back against the armrest of his throne and in his solitude continued to break down on the cold ground of Dale.
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Legolas was returning to the Elven camp with the last of the injured. They had found and gotten many to safety before they could succumb to their wounds. Himself, Valadhiel and Daeron had expressed to each other how proud they were to have saved so many. Legolas was deep in conversation with Valadhiel, who was Feren’s second in command. Her long hair was blonde with undertones of red, braided back into a ponytail and her eyes were the brightest green. They had been very good friends since they were toddlers, flirtatious at times, but never serious about it. With a similar name to his mother’s Legolas always felt a deeper connection with Valadhiel.
“If I may speak to you as a friend and not Feren’s second in command, you mustn’t think too harshly of your father. He sent us after you not only to make sure you lived but also to aid the dwarves, those were our orders mellon.” Valadhiel asserted. Legolas sighed.
“I do not really want to speak on this Valadhiel, threatening Tauriel was unforgivable, helping the dwarves at the last second does not exactly make up for that.” Legolas said sternly, Valadhiel’s eyebrows knitted in confusion.
“You do realise that Tauriel raised her weapon against him first. He was well within his rights my Prince.” Valadhiel said. Legolas ran his hand over his face as they continued walking.
“I am aware, this is all very complicated. I will speak with my father eventually and have an actual conversation with him about what has transpired.” Legolas said as they finally reached the tent for the wounded. Valadhiel smiled brightly.
“I am glad to hear it Legolas, it may not be a pleasant conversation but it is necessary.” Valadhiel said putting a reassuring hand on his shoulder. Daeron then stepped in front of the pair and opened the large tent for Legolas and the rest to enter. From the looks of it, many of the wounded had been able to exit the tent, as there were many spots empty. Legolas desperately tried to avert his attention from the side where all the passed elves were laid. He had seen enough death these last days. There were eight healers about tending to the wounded, with several soldiers he recognised aiding them where they could. A significant improvement to yesterday’s three healers, Legolas thought to himself.
As Legolas surveyed the scene, Valadhiel had gone to sit with an unconscious Ninniachel and Daeron had gone to speak with one of the healers that was not occupied. That is when Legolas noticed Bard walking towards him, his tunic sleeves rolled up and his hands stained pink from what Legolas could only assume was blood.
“Lord Bard, I must admit it gives me great joy to see you well.” Legolas said bowing his head slightly. Bard returned the bow and stood in front of the Elven prince.
“And I you. It has been a difficult night, but thanks to King Thranduil, we managed to save far more than I had expected.” Bard said optimistically. Legolas’ face contorted in confusion slightly. What had King Thranduil done exactly? Suddenly next to Bard appeared the healer that had previously been speaking with Daeron, his name was Mardion. Legolas looked at him expecting an explanation.
“Hir-nin Legolas, Lord Bard is speaking the truth, with all but two healers and myself coming out able bodied from the ambush, we never would have saved the sum we did without the king.” Mardion explained, wringing his hands together as he spoke. “King Thranduil saved well over half of the wounded alone. Some even were able to simply get up and leave when he was done with them. I must admit his own training surpasses that of mine and my pupils. He would have made an extraordinary professional healer if he was not king. I know only of Lord Elrond of Imladris who has that kind of stamina.”
Legolas almost did not believe what he was hearing. He knew that his father had some training in the healing arts, but he certainly was not aware that it was to this level of expertise.
“He saved over half of the wounded? Alone?” Legolas asked cautiously. Bard and Mardion nodded simultaneously.
“He worked tirelessly for around seventeen hours, Lord Tirithon and Galion had to force him out to rest only an hour ago.” Mardion explained.
“I arrived to help when he was already busy for eight hours and I took rest a few times since then.” Bard added. Legolas absorbed all the information just thrown at him. The anger and betrayal he had towards his father ebbed away slightly at these revelations. As Legolas was stuck in his thought Mardion went to help patient, but Bard remained. Bard cleared his throat and Legolas was brought out of his thoughts and back to reality once more. Bard leaned close to Legolas and spoke softly. “I do not know if this is my place to tell you, but your father did not seem well at all when he left an hour ago. While he saved many, not all could be healed. He was already looking tired when I came and he visibly deteriorated every hour. Myself and everyone there were very concerned since he refused to stop whenever we asked if he would rest.”
Legolas stared at Bard in disbelief and recalled what Mardion has previously told him. Seventeen hours of continuous healing was too much for healers to work, let alone one. Worry seared in Legolas’ stomach. He may still be angry at his father, but he needed to make sure that his father was alright. He gripped Bard’s bicep tightly, a gesture of gratitude.
“Thank you for telling me. I greatly appreciate it. I will let you return to your patients.” Legolas said kindly. Bard nodded with a smile and left his side. Before Legolas made to exit the tent, he looked to Valadhiel. She smiled and nodded at him, silently telling him to go. Legolas smiled and turned to exit the tent.
Once outside, Legolas made a beeline towards the King’s tent. It was morning, so many elves filled the courtyard. Many bowed respectfully, but Legolas paid them no mind. His legs were carrying him to the tent on the opposite end of the courtyard as fast as walking would allow. Up ahead, some ten meters away from the entrance of Thranduil’s tent, stood Galion, Feren and Lord Tirithon, all in deep conversation with each other. As he approached, Legolas noticed that all three of them had grave expressions on their faces. This worried Legolas further. Feren noticed him coming towards them and signaled Tirithon and Galion to turn and acknowledge Legolas. Tirithon stepped to greet him first.
“Thank the Valar you are finally here. Are you well?” Tirithon asked scanning Legolas’ body.
“Yes I am well. Though I have been informed that my father is not.” Legolas said, attempting to intimate his voice as his father would when he was irked.
“No he is not, I am sure you know by now he worked without stopping for seventeen hours. He nearly fell over when he tried to convince us he could keep working.” Tirithon said looking back at Galion and Feren, each wearing solemn expressions. “When we finally did force him out, he looked... despaired.”
“He ordered us out an hour ago and he has not acknowledged us in since.” Feren added. “He would not let us help him wash off the blood. There was so much of it.” Feren looked slightly ill at the last remark. Legolas steeled his nerves and took a step closer towards the tent.
“I will go and speak with him.” Legolas simply said. Tirithon and Feren were about to protest before Legolas stopped them. “I am his son, he will acknowledge me, he owes me that much after our confrontation.” At that Tirithon and Feren shut their mouths and both sighed deeply. Legolas bowed his head in gratitude and turned towards the tent. Galion put a hand on his shoulder and stopped him momentarily. Before Legolas could speak Galion began speaking in a tone that not even Thranduil would argue with.
“I know you are angry with him, you have every right to be. But have care with how you are with him. I fear this battle has taken an irreversible toll. He may not be in the right emotional state of mind to discuss what you want to discuss. He was exhausted when we left him my Prince, now is not the time to start a fight.” Legolas looked away slightly frustrated, but Galion held his gaze.
“My father does not feel Galion, arguing is the only way I will get any semblance of emotion out of him.” Legolas said in frustration as he moved past Galion.
“I fear you are mistaken my prince.” Galion said gravely. He let go of Legolas and went to join Tirithon and Feren where they were standing. Legolas took one last look at the three of them, before taking the final steps to the entrance of Thranduil’s tent. He expected his father to be somewhat angry, maybe pacing and muttering to himself as he did sometimes when he lost his temper. He expected him to look a little bit tired, maybe a bit disheveled.
How sorely mistaken he was.
When Legolas entered the tent, the only source of light in the dark space was a dying lamp light on the table. He moved deeper into the tent, confused as to why he was not seeing his father. Legolas looked curiously around before he was startled by a hoarse voice that came from the ground.
“Have you come to judge me further ion-nin?”
Legolas spun around the the source of the voice. His eyes widened and his mouth opened in shock with what he saw. Galion, Feren, Tirithon and Bard had no exaggerated.
Thranduil sat on the floor, his back leaning against his throne, with his head resting against the armrest. He started vacantly ahead of him, his eyes not really focussing on anything. Tears leaked continuously from his dimmed eyes, streaming down his cheeks, over his jaw and down his neck. The tears glistened in the dim light. Thranduil had dark circles around his eyes, his cheeks were hollowed and he was so sickly pale he skin looked almost grey. Thranduil’s hair was disheveled, it was curling and there were dark red stains in some places. Legolas became more alarmed when his eyes fell on Thranduil’s hands in his lap. There was dried blood covering his hand and arm from finger tip to elbow. It looked like Thranduil had tried to wash it off around his wrists with no success. The rolled up sleeves and several spots on his shirt also had much dried blood on it. Thranduil’s legs were slightly stretched out in front of him and his shoulders were slumped in defeat. His breathing was shallow, his chest rising and falling unevenly, like he was trying not to hyperventilate. Thranduil was the picture of defeat and despair.
Legolas gaped unashamedly at his father, suddenly regretting his last words to Galion. Oh how he regretted even for a moment wanting to fight with his father. Legolas’ anger bled away as he took in the sight before him. It dawned on him what everyone had been telling him. Seventeen hours of continuous healing, no rest, through the afternoon, evening, night and early morning. Even while Legolas had been out searching for the wounded at the same time, he had take several hours of rest.
Legolas snapped out of his shocked trance when Thranduil’s tired eyes met his. The tears would not stop, and it worried Legolas to no end. He did not know what to do. Never had he seen such a display of emotion from his father, not since he could remember. Legolas opened his mouth to speak but words would not come to him. His mind was scattered and he felt like a child again. Then Legolas recalled what his father had asked him.
Have you come to judge me further?
He took a few cautious steps towards his father. When Thranduil did not react, Legolas walked to stand next to him. He began to lower himself to the ground.
“No... no I have not come to judge you Adar.” Legolas said softly as he sat down. Thranduil continued to stare ahead, blinking slowly as tears continued to fall. Legolas inclined his head to get a better look at his father’s face. It was worse up close, Thranduil’s eyes were bright red around his dimmed iris, and the bags under his eyes were far more pronounced. He also noticed a large bowl of pinkish water sitting by Thranduil’s leg, with some untouched towels next to it. “I was concerned for you. Many told me of what you did this past night Adar.”
Thranduil’s breath hitched for a second and his jaw trembled. He closed his eyes tightly for moment and opened them again.
“Healing the w-wounds that I caused in my s-selfishness is h-hardly something t-to be praised for...”Thranduil whispered, still not meeting Legolas’ gaze since he sat down. His voice was shaking, thick with tears.
“Adar the orcs caused those injuries not you.” Legolas insisted. Thranduil shook his head, looking down at his bloodied hands through blurring eyes.
“No... I lead them here... if it w-were not for my a-arrogance... s-so many would not h-have died so... v-violently.” Thranduil flexed his fingers showing the dried blood between them. “I betrayed t-those loyal to me... by b-bringing them h-hear.” Legolas could not comprehend what he was hearing. It was not the Thranduil he knew, the Thranduil he loved. Legolas moved closer.
“Adar no, you could never-“ but Legolas was cut off.
“But I did... and those wounded that I could not save, thirty-nine of them... thirty-nine elves who deserved much better than my failing to save them...” Thranduil’s jaw trembled violently as he spoke and continued to stare at his hands. “Their b-blood... it will forever...” Thranduil’s sentence cut off when a sob escaped his chest. He began to heave a little bit and he brought of up one of his hands to cover his eyes. He had no energy to fight the inevitable anymore. His body and his emotions were far too intense for him to maintain a kingly facade, even in front of his son, who was the last person Thranduil wanted to him like this.
Legolas watched his father, his strong and unmovable father break down in front of him. He realised that the dried blood was making his guilt intensify to a point where it suffocated Thranduil. Legolas grabbed the towels next to the bowl and dipped it into the water. Legolas gently grabbed his father’s wrist and started the wipe away the dried blood. Thranduil turned his head to finally look upon his son properly.
“Adar please do not say such things. Mardion and Bard told me that you saved over half the wounded on your own. Many who would not have stood a chance at life can return to their loved ones because of your healing Adar. You have not failed our realm...” Legolas spoken softly but assertively. He looked up briefly and met Thranduil’s gaze.
“I have failed you most of all... my son...” Thranduil whispered. Legolas stopped his movements for a second, then resumed. He moved the cloth from Thranduil’s now clean hand to his forearm.
“We do not need to discuss that now Adar.” Legolas said as he dipped the cloth into the water.
“No. I must apologies to you, for I have failed you... and your mother...as a father...” Thranduil said shakily. Legolas could tell that this was a difficult subject for his father, as he had never discussed it with Legolas. “By not... sharing her memory with you and not... allowing myself to love you... as much as I should...” another sob escaped his chest. “By the Valar my Greenleaf she loved you more than life itself... she made me vow to do the same... and I saw... my failure... stare back at me when you stood... against me.” Legolas could feel a stinging sensation behind his eyes as he listened to his father bare his souls to him. So much guilt, so much grief.
“Ada...”
“And I lead my army... the people who elected me... to this cursed mountain... for her gems... I went to war... I let so many die... so many be wounded... because I did not realise that her most precious gift to me... was you...” Thranduil’s sobs became more frequent and the tears would not cease. Legolas finished cleaning one of Thranduil’s hands, leaving one arm a pale white and the other still a copper red. Legolas held onto the clean hand. “But I know that now... my son... my precious Greenleaf... that no amount of gems could possibly replace you...” Thranduil’s still bloodied hand came up to brush Legolas’s cheek impossibly lightly. Thranduil smiled sadly through his many tears.
“I love you penneth... I do... and I will forever hate myself for not telling you sooner...”
Legolas’ dam broke and his own tears began to fall. How he had longed for Thranduil to say those words in unconditional love. It was overwhelming and astonishing, unlike anything he had ever felt. Legolas could see how his father was so exhausted that he could no longer stop the anguished sobs and he was on the verge of joining him. Legolas put down the cloth and gripped his father’s clean hand with both of his.
“I understand if... you do not feel the same way... I have done nothing to... deserve your unconditional love...” Thranduil whispered as he turned his head away once more. Legolas perked up and shook his head.
“Ada no, you have. Just today alone, I understand what you do for our kingdom, what you do for me. If you would have me... I would like to be your son again, not just the prince and you my father not just the king.” Legolas implored, squeezing Thranduil’s hand tighter. “And if it is not too difficult... I should like to know about Naneth.” Thranduil started at his son sadly, his sobs and tears still refusing to subside.
“Of course... I will tell you... whatever you wish about her...” Legolas smiled at that, a small sob finally breaking the surface.
Before Legolas could react, Thranduil wrapped his arms tightly around his son, burying his face between his neck and shoulder. Legolas recovered himself and wrapped his arms around Thranduil equally tightly. From there, Legolas could feel the way his back and chest heaved with every deep sob. Thranduil only made occasional noises, mostly muffled by his heavy breathing. Legolas gripped some of Thranduil’s hair, anchoring himself as he too cried. Legolas could feel Thranduil clawing at his back and shoulders, gripping onto him like a life line. In that moment, they were the only two beings in the world. There on the cold ground, they finally found familial warmth that they had craved for decades. Legolas began to understand Thranduil as a person, the king, the father and now the healer. Their relationship would have to build, as much time had been wasted not understanding one another.
But, for now, embracing each other and crying together, after so much grief, so many emotions and so many tears... it was enough for Thranduil and Legolas.