Chapter Text
The air stank with blood and orc-sweat. Swords clashed under the boughs, and arrows sang. The enemy force had come up from Dol Goldur to test the armies of Mirkwood. They found formidable resistance, but the battle was not decided yet.
Legolas had emptied his quiver. Now he ran across the battlefield to collect arrows from the bodies. He kept his sword at the ready as orc after orc tested him and quickly met their demise.
His gaze was drawn to one of his comrades, Tuilnen, who was holding off two orcs at once. As Legolas turned, he spotted a third orc rushing toward Tuilnen from behind. The soldier was still locked in dual combat. He had no idea what was coming.
Legolas acted on instinct. In a moment, his light feet carried him between the third orc and Tuilnen. His arm shot up to parry, but in his haste, the angle wasn't right. The crooked sword knocked his steel from his grip and slashed a deep band across his chest. The pain was almost blinding. He fell to his knees. Still, he could make out his comrade shouting something.
Legolas yanked a knife from his belt and swung his arm up to lodge it in the orc’s neck. It sputtered and staggered back. Legolas’ vision went white for a moment. When the colors returned, he tried to stand up.
Something suddenly tore through his torso. The noise he made was low and agonized. Looking down, he saw an arrow buried in his right gut.
He took down his bow and aimed into the trees. The archer tumbled out of the branches, already dead. Then, Legolas’ body gave out. He found himself lying on his back. Tuilnen appeared above him.
“Legolas!”
Something pressed into Legolas’s chest, and he finally screamed. He thrashed, trying to pull away from the pain.
“I’m sorry, I have to apply pressure.” Tuilnen looked up. “Help!!! I need a healer here, now!!!”
“I’m alright,” Legolas whispered.
Tuilnen’s hand cradled his cheek. Fear was in his face.
“My Prince…hold on.”
Not once had Tuilnen called him that, or addressed him by any title since their first meeting decades ago.
“I’m alright…”
The colors were fading again.
~
Legolas sat cradled in his father’s lap. They were listening to the soft gurgle of the fountain in the Queen’s Garden. Legolas often felt distant from her, but being alone here with his father helped bridge the gap.
“I wish I could remember Nana.”
Thranduil shifted slightly.
“I believe some small part of you does remember her. You knew each other in a way that no one else can. She spoke to you for hours at a time before you were even born. She gave you her heart.”
Thranduil rested his chin atop his son’s head and whispered, “If you keep very, very still and quiet, you’ll hear her.
Thranduil moved as quickly as he could without breaking into an outright run. He filled the doorway of the healing ward and frantically scanned the beds. There, to the right, lay Legolas. He was pallid and unconscious. Two healers bustled almost soundlessly around him as they changed his dressings. The old linens were soaked with blood and discharge. Thranduil’s instinct was to rush to the bedside, but he knew not to get in the way. He had to trust them with his son.
When the healers in the room noticed the king’s presence, they bowed slightly, but continued on with their work. He watched from the side with a tight expression. Seeing the prince’s open wounds made his heart hammer against his ribcage.
Suddenly, he tasted ash and blood in his mouth. His father’s glassy eyes stared up at him. He bowed his head and squeezed his eyes shut.
When they finished redressing Legolas, one healer approached Thranduil. She offered a deep bow.
“Your Majesty, the prince’s wounds are healing at the expected rate, given their severity. He is strong. We are hopeful for his recovery, but he will need careful attention.”
He exhaled and nodded. There was no need to ask for their best efforts.
“We will bathe him and settle him in to rest.”
An attendant wiped Legolas' exposed skin with a damp washcloth. When he reached for the prince’s hair, Thranduil found himself stepping forward.
“He dislikes that.”
The attendant stood erect, startled at being addressed by the king.
“He…dislikes other people touching his hair. I will take care of it.”
He bowed in deference. “Can I do anything else?”
“That will be all. Thank you.”
Thranduil occupied the stool beside the bed. He could feel eyes on him. He gently lifted Legolas’ head with one hand and scooped all of his hair to one side. He rubbed it with another washcloth, then combed it and fanned it out to dry on the pillow. Hours passed in stillness. When it was dry, he combed it again and braided it all in one. Legolas had never worn it this way, but it would keep his hair neat while he recovered.
Thranduil did not move from the stool once, not even when offered a more comfortable seat. He watched his son’s chest rise and fall.
Laegren’s brow was tense with pain and determination. Her knuckles were pure white from gripping the sheets.
“Up,” the midwife said in a clipped tone, all niceties gone, “You’ve lost too much blood. We must go up on the bed.”
Laegren’s blood covered the sheets laid out on the floor. It covered Thranduil and the midwife. It made their chambers look like the battlefield he had too recently returned from. But he could not allow himself to fall into such thoughts when the present situation was so urgent.
He helped hoist Laegren onto the mattress. She muffled her cry of pain.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered, “It will be over soon.”
Before he could pull back, her hands grasped the front of his tunic. Her eyes blazed.
“Save them…That is all.”
She released him. He stared at her, wishing that he didn’t understand her meaning. He took her hand again. The midwife and her two attendants leaned in. She pushed. More blood. The midwife looked him in the eye. He looked away.
At last, they had the child by the head. Laegren’s screams died down as her body released its ward. The child didn’t cry right away. She slumped back, and Thranduil cupped her cheeks.
“Laegren, wait. You must see him.”
But she did not close her eyes. In a moment, her unfocused gaze lost its light. Her fea was gone.
She was gone.
“Laegren!”
Thrandruil saw his mother, eyes open and expression blank, still clutching a sword in both hands. His father’s glassy eyes staring up at him. And blood, always blood.
His mouth almost formed a curse for the Valar. Instead, he spoke it in his head.
“Have you not had enough? Are you not satisfied?”
The child was crying. He could not look away from Laegren’s face, searching for something he knew would not appear.
A thin voice addressed him, “My Lord…your son is here.”
He allowed Laegren’s emptiness to cut him once more. Then, he stood and turned. The attendant, whose apron was spotted with blood, was holding Legolas in a clean towel. Her face was streaked with tears. Legolas’ little arms twitched as he cried. The effort had turned him pink. Thranduil took him carefully.
“I will keep you safe,” he promised in a murmur, “They will tear me apart before they reach you.”
At nighttime, most of the sconces were snuffed out, and candles illuminated the ward. Thranduil held Legolas’ hand. He had not left the room. Galion had appeared briefly to ask if he would like dinner brought to him, but he refused. He had no appetite.
He squeezed his son’s hand, hoping Legolas could sense his presence and draw strength from it. He prayed under his breath.
“Take me first. Let the parent go before the child, as you always did before. Do not summon him, please…”
Someone coughed on the other side of the ward. A few coughs turned into several, punctuated by a pained groan. Thranduil looked around. The healers had all stepped out momentarily.
He stood and approached the bed. This was a survivor of the same battle as Legolas. His torso was bound in linen.
“Do you need assistance?”
The soldier’s eyes widened when he saw who was speaking to him. He tried to drag himself up, but Thranduil raised a hand to stop him. He looked around for a water pitcher and poured a cup. When he offered it, the soldier’s eyes remained downcast. When he lifted his arm to take the cup, it shook.
He drank, then said coarsely, “Thank you, Your Majesty.”
He lowered his head in the only bow he could manage. Two healers entered the room carrying supplies. They paused when they saw the king beside a bed that did not belong to his son. Thranduil resumed his place.