"Your father is dead. His wine was poisoned. You are king."
Impossible.
That was Legolas's first thought. How? The king's personal wine cabinet was locked, and even Legolas did not have a key. There had been no inkling of rebellion nor upset–who would want to kill the wood's most beloved king?
He searched the messenger's face for any sign that this was some cruel joke, a test to see how he would respond. He saw naught but seriousness, sadness. Legolas blinked once, twice, acutely aware of the growing silence and the fact that he probably ought to say something. An accusation at the lie was on the tip of his tongue, beginning to be spoken.
He couldn't breathe.
It washed over him suddenly, and whatever warmth had remained in his heart and limbs was sucked out painfully.
Dead. How?
Poison.
Treason!
Dead.
King.
He could feel himself trembling, shivering violently, his body struggling to regain its warmth and his soul searching for something to hold on to, some shred of hope. His teeth chattered, grating painfully against one another in his ears like the sound of a thousand swords, clashing and rubbing and–
The next time he woke, there was silent.
A few moments passed. Slowly, as if through many walls, sounds began to reach his ears: muffled voices, not whispers, but far away from him. The rustle of fabric, cotton. The chirping of birds.
It was warm. Something light was resting on him, and behind closed eyelids he could see the golden light of sunset, and he felt the breeze (an open door?) smoothing at his forehead and his hair with smooth, light fingers.
Is this what death feels like?
"Legolas."
Yes?
"Legolas, I know you are awake. Open your eyes."
Must I?
A new voice.
"My king, please."
His heart sank.
Not dead, then.
Opening his eyes seemed like an insurmountable task. When they finally opened a crack, the light was blinding, and then he shut them swiftly.
"Try again." The first voice. "They will adjust."
If he had the energy, he would've sighed, but he needed all his willpower just to open his eyes a second time. They ached with the effort.
"H–" His throat was dry. "How long?"
"Seven hours. It is nearly nightfall."
Seven hours of a kingless kingdom.
Legolas did not know where he found the strength to sit up. He heard his own voice in his ears, asking for food and water. He assured the healers and the Councillors that wandered in to see him that tomorrow morning's council meeting would proceed as planned, and after that they would begin preparations for Thranduil's funeral. Before night fell, he was up and at his desk, signing paperwork. Life had to go on.
He understood, suddenly, how Thranduil had felt for all those years. Aching, empty, drawing from long-dried wells of strength. His grip on his quill tightened. If Thranduil knew how well his son now understood him, Legolas did not know if the once-king would smile or weep.