Title: Abiding Fears
Summary: When Legolas suffers his first serious injury after the death of his mother, it is Thranduil who finds him. Both are confronted with new fears that linger even years after her death and seek to navigate new realities.
Author's Note: Happy New Year! As with my last story, I was working on something different and felt stuck. To get out of my head for that story, I tried to think of something short and simple that I could write quickly. Within twenty-four hours, this was done. It is two chapters and written in its entirety, the next chapter will be up next week. Enjoy!
Disclaimer: I don't own the Lord of the Rings or anything else created by J.R.R. Tolkien, and I think him profusely for the playground.
Chapter One: Found
Legolas staggered. Unbalanced, he pitched forward and would have fallen to the ground but for a nearby tree that broke his fall. He choked back a cry of pain. He was wounded, and his stumble had jarred the injury. He could not find the strength to be alarmed at the feeling of fresh blood soaking his tunic. His eyes scanned the forest, searching for enemies. He hoped this was the battle's end, and not merely another momentary lull in the fighting. His sharp eyes found no one left to fight. Was the battle truly over? He did not think it mattered anymore for him.
His head swam and his vision tilted dangerously. His hands slipped from the tree and he collapsed. He landed face down and turned his head to the side. He gripped the ground with his hands as though holding fast to something so solid could restore the equilibrium in his head. The world was growing dark, though dusk was several hours away. Through the roaring in his ears, he could dimly hear voices of other elves beginning to call out to the injured, but he had not the breath to respond to them.
They had won though. If the elves were searching for wounded, it meant the battle was indeed over and the elves had been victorious. Comforted by this knowledge, Legolas did not fight it when the darkness claimed him and let his eyes slip closed.
They rode at an easy pace. After a successful trip to Esgaroth filled with meetings, negotiations, and feasts, the returning elves set a slow pace to take advantage of the good weather on their journey.
Thranduil paid little attention to the conversation of the elves around him, and instead tilted his head back in the sunshine slightly and lost himself in the forest. It was rare for him to travel outside of the stronghold these days. As the forest became more dangerous, he rode out only as needed. The death of his wife had further cloistered him within the halls of his home. It was only recently that he had truly begun to recover from her loss. He would never be whole again, but he would learn how to function even with a piece of himself permanently missing. He had to, if not for himself, then for his people and for Legolas. Especially for Legolas, he could not leave his only child alone in such a dark world.
Normally, he would not have personally made the trip to Esgaroth. But when it came time to appoint a minister to handle it, he acted upon the unexpected impulse to get out of the stronghold and go himself.
They were far enough north, far enough away from the darkness in the south, that the trees still reached out in greeting to the elves. Despite his long absence from this part of the forest, the trees knew him and greeted him with a familiarity that brought comfort to his troubled soul.
"Aran nin," one of his guards interrupted his reverie, "What do you think?"
The king allowed himself to be pulled into the conversation and the elves continued their trek.
As they continued, all of them noticed a change in the atmosphere. The sun was still bright and shining in the sky and no danger was readily apparent, but the trees seem tense and whispered in uncertainty. Thranduil and his guards were only maybe an hour from the stronghold when several elves approached at top speed. They slowed quickly, easily identifying their king and his company. The riders bowed their heads to Thranduil. The elf at the front spoke, his words polite and respectful but still rushed, "Aran nin, welcome home."
The king nodded in reply to the greeting, "Where do you go with such haste?"
The elf shook his head darkly, "There was an attack, my lord. Reinforcements were sent out; the battle was won, but we go to collect the wounded and dead."
The king's guards sat up a bit straighter, their eyes searching the forest as though the enemy might be bearing down on them even now. They were always alert, even when no danger was readily visible, but this news ended any pretense of relaxation. Thranduil pursed his lips, "You say the battle is won?"
"Yes, a runner was sent back with word that it was safe now to ride out and to request assistance. They are only an hour's fast ride from here."
"What can we do to help?" The king was not used to asking such questions, he was used to giving commands, not taking them. His place was in the palace with the War Council, but if the battle was over, the needs of the warriors still in the field would be greater than those of his councilors.
"Aran nin," Daeron, his head guard, spoke up, uncertainty colored his tone.
"I trust the assessment that the forest is safe. If aid is needed, we are closer than anyone else."
The elf from the stronghold spoke again, "If your majesty is willing, your assistance would be most welcome. The elves are still gathering the dead and wounded, they all need to be returned to the stronghold."
Daeron did not like the idea of his king riding out when they had so little information about the conditions and spoke again, "My lord, why don't you return to the stronghold with two guards, and we will ride out to help?"
Thranduil shook his head, "Your determination to keep me safe is admirable and appreciated, but I will not deprive warriors in need of three able bodies. Lead the way," he commanded.
They arrived to the organized chaos that was typical of the aftermath of a battle. The dead and wounded were still being collected from the forest and riders were returning to the stronghold with the injured.
The elf coordinating the efforts stood in a clearing, directing other elves. Thranduil recognized her as a lieutenant, and could tell from her slightly disheveled appearance that she had been a part of the battle. She did a double take when she saw Thranduil, stopping her actions and bowing deeply, "Aran nin," she said in surprise.
Daeron took the lead, dismounting his horse and approaching the elf, he clasped her forearm in greeting, "What can we do?"
Recovering only slightly from her shock, she gestured to the area to the east, "A few of our number were lured that way in the fighting partway through the battle, not all have returned. Will you search for them?"
"Of course," Daeron replied.
Thranduil moved with purpose to the east, his hand resting deliberately on his sword. The trees here, tinged with a darkness from the evil creatures that had dwelled beneath their boughs, were silent in the aftermath of battle. The did not hinder the elves, but they also did not reach out to them the way the trees along the elf path did. Though he did not sense further danger, he felt uneasy in this place.
He searched amongst the trees, surprised by the number of dead orcs and goblins that littered the ground if only a few warriors had been drawn this way. He swelled with pride at the skill displayed by his warriors. The pride was tempered by sadness when he found an elf for whom no help could be offered, already on a journey to the Halls of Mandos. He had marked the place with a vertical branch in the ground, but moved on. The wounded took priority over the dead right now.
Then he saw something that made his heart stop. Fear flooded him. Twenty yards or so away, he thought he saw a glimmer of a very specific shade of golden blond hair, but surely he was wrong. Legolas was not here. Legolas was in the stronghold. None of the patrols that Legolas regularly lead were a part of this battle. His mind could not bridge the gap between what had to be true—that his son was at home safe, advising on the battle from afar—with what had suddenly in front of him—his son unmoving on the ground. Thranduil moved that way quickly, wanting to confirm that his eyes had deceived him.
He moved through the trees and felt his breath leave him as he ran to close the distance between himself and his fallen son. He fell to his knees next to Legolas, for now there could be no doubt, trying not think about what the amount of blood surrounding the younger elf usually meant, what it had meant the last time he had found a loved one like this.
And in that moment he was not kneeling next to his son, but next to his wife. He saw in his mind's eye as he reached out not to him but to her, searching desperately for a sign of life, any sign at all, and found none. Found only the absence of her and felt himself swallowed by that absence. He felt again the crushing confusion and anger, followed closely by grief and guilt at being too late.
Thranduil shuddered as he pulled himself to the present. History did not need to repeat itself. Legolas was not dead. Legolas could not be dead. Thranduil could help him. Anything else was intolerable.
Legolas was not facing him, and Thranduil reached out a shaking hand to his son's neck. When he felt the pulse, weak and erratic as it was under his fingers, he drew in a breath that was more of a sob and squeezed his eyes shut in relief for one moment. He would allow himself this one moment. Then he was moving again.
"Legolas," he said, the prone elf didn't even twitch. Louder this time, "Legolas, can you hear me?"
Nothing.
Carefully, Thranduil rolled him onto his back and looked at him closely. The young elf's face was ashen and his tunic was soaked through with blood. Thranduil gently gathered his son into his arms and moved as swiftly as he could without jostling his precious cargo back to his horse.
Daeron saw him and followed close behind, "My king," he started and then stopped short, seeing the prince.
"I am returning to the palace. Come if you want, but I will not wait," the king said, his tone leaving no room for discussion.
Daeron ran ahead of him and retrieved Thranduil's horse. Holding the reigns out to the king, he turned to a nearby elf, "The prince was here?"
The elf paused in his task. "Truthfully, I do not know," he replied, "The attack was unexpected and I could not keep track of everyone after it began. He was not here when it started, but he may have come with the reinforcements."
"Tell your lieutenant we are taking Legolas back to the stronghold."
The elf nodded, bowing his head as the king passed.
Legolas was not certain what brought him back to the surface now. Pain maybe. Or the fact that he was moving.
He tried to shift into a less painful position, but felt himself restrained by a strong grip.
"Do not move, you are bleeding and unnecessary motion will make it worse," a voice floated to him through the fog in his mind. The calm and authoritative voice was familiar, it anchored him. He clung to it to remain even somewhat lucid.
He recognized the motion now, he was on a horse.
"Legolas," the voice said again, "Can you hear me?"
Legolas fought to open his eyes, but when he succeeded, he quickly abandoned the effort. Knowing that he was moving and seeing the branches of the trees race past him were two very different things. The dizziness returned in full force at the blurry sight.
A moan escaped his lips.
"Legolas? It will be alright, just hold on."
"Adar?" he whispered raggedly, finally knowing the voice.
"I am here. I will not leave you."
Something was wrong. Legolas had never heard this tone from his father before. The fear in his voice was familiar enough and not surprising given that he was injured. But there was something else too, something that went beyond fear. Something…broken. He tried again to open his eyes, but found he could not. He felt now the fresh blood soaking his tunic. He felt consciousness leaving him. But now he too was afraid, not for himself, but for his father. He fought to stay present.
The struggle only caused pain. His hands clenched into fists and his entire body tensed. "Adar," he murmured again, wanting to say more but finding he could not, his tongue and lips would not cooperate. And he did not know what to say.
His father's voice was lower this time, and seemed to come to him as though from a great distance, "I will not leave you. Do not leave me."
He wanted to say that he would not leave, that he was here. But awareness left him before he even had the chance to try.
A change in the movement brought him back again. He was not fully aware, but he drifted just below the surface of consciousness.
"Let me take him, aran nin," a voice floated to him from below.
"No," the firm voice of his father sounded above him, brokering no room for negotiation.
There was movement again, more this time. He felt himself being lifted and shifted into a different position, and knew he was still safely supported in his father's arms. But careful as the movements were, they still brought pain. This time, he managed to stay silent as the world again faded away.
He was no longer moving, but he was still in pain and there was a constant pressure on his wound. The pain seemed worse now and refused to be ignored. It pulled him from the comfortable blackness to the frustrating, semi-aware state of before. This time, he was able to open his eyes, but failed focus on anything. He caught movement around him. His father's embrace was gone, and he was lying prone on a bed. He had been in this state enough times to recognize the healing wards of his home.
He shoulders were lifted gently and he caught sight of a figure above him. He swallowed automatically when a cup was tipped against his lips. He was carefully placed back against the pillows and his eyes darted around the room, following sounds automatically without registering any useful information.
Then the pressure on the wound increased and he jerked, moaning at the pain. He would have tried to pull away, but found he was too weak to force his limbs to obey him.
"Easy, Legolas. Be still," it did not matter that Legolas was unable to fully comprehend all of the words, he obeyed his father. He stilled and the pain receded somewhat.
"The pain will ease soon, ernil nin." Legolas recognized the voice of Aradhel, one of the most experienced healers in his home.
His father and Aradhel were here? How serious was the injury?
He fought to be more present even as the darkness sought to drag his mind back down, down, down...
"Don't fight it, Legolas," Aradhel said, "That potion was meant to make you sleep."
But Legolas did fight it, Aradhel not able to command the same compliance as the king. With a great effort, Legolas managed to focus on his father. The king's presence filled the room even though he stood in the corner, out of the healer's way. Thranduil's expression was dark. There was a desperation in his eyes as he looked intently at Legolas. This look was vaguely familiar to Legolas, but he could not place it. Legolas did not want to sleep, he wanted to erase that look from his father's face.
Thranduil must have realized at least something of the problem for his features softened. "Rest," he said gently, though his tone was still wrong, still forced, "All is well, just rest."
Legolas did not believe him. Something was wrong, but he felt his eyes closing against his will. He could not win the battle against Aradhel's potion any longer.
As he slipped away, he was left only with snatches of conversation.
"…lucky you found him when you did, much longer and…"
"No poison, the fever comes from infection caused by…"
He drifted, neither awake nor asleep.
"You should…"
"…not leaving. I will stay out of your way, but I will not…"
Legolas couldn't focus long enough to catch even a complete sentence. The last thing he heard was a quiet plea from his father, succinct and desperate enough that it captured even his wandering attention.
"Don't leave me."
He knew no more.
Thank you for reading! The second chapter will be up next week. If you're so inclined, I would love to hear what you thought!
~Cool Breeze