Title: Stillness
Summary: Thranduil sits by an injured Legolas's bedside, lamenting the stillness of his son.
Author's Note: It has been a long time since I posted a story on this website—so long that I no longer have access to my old account and had to start a new one. I've been actively reading the entire time, and I have always been a more avid reader than writer. Legolas has always been my favorite character, and this is a story about him told from Thranduil's perspective. I always welcome constructive criticism and would love to hear what you think if you have a minute after reading. Enjoy!
Thoughts are in italics.
Ion nin, you are so still, as still as death.
Legolas lay unmoving upon the bed. The wound in his belly should have caused him great pain. He should have been moaning and thrashing—Thranduil found himself wishing that he would. He wished his son was not so far gone that he could not feel the pain. Thranduil shook his head in disgust at himself. How could he think such thoughts? To wish one's child pain—what kind of monster would do that?
But the stillness was killing him! The thought that Legolas may never move again—never fire his bow again, never laugh with his father again, never even open his eyes again—such thoughts were both intolerable and unavoidable.
The healers had told him that his son would likely recover. That most of the danger had passed. But the stillness was unnerving. And until Legolas himself proved that he would recover, until he woke up and moved, Thranduil found he could not believe completely that his son would be well.
Despite the lateness of the hour, perpetual motion surrounded Thranduil. Healers were tending to the other wounded, warriors checked on their friends, advisors approached the king only to back away again when he didn't even acknowledge their existence. Thranduil was completely focused on his son, as though he could will him to move, to wake up, to live.
This was his son's fault, of course. Legolas had been returning to the stronghold with a patrol when this had happened. They should not have been in danger! It had been a safe, short patrol. He had only just returned from a much longer, more dangerous patrol a week ago. One long enough and draining enough that even his indefatigable son had been forced to take time to rest. This patrol was meant to give him something to do, get him out of the stronghold again without wearing him down.
And that was exactly what it had done, right until they were attacked without warning. Orcs had been mere leagues from his stronghold. How dare they? How dare they spoil his lands with their foul presence, how dare they hurt his son?
The advisors that he was pointedly ignoring undoubtedly wanted him to do something more about that situation. But all he wanted was for his son, his captain, to wake up and give him a report.
The patrol Legolas had accompanied had not been composed of the realm's most senior warriors. Many had barely left the novice ranks. After all, it was supposed to be safe. In spite of their inexperience, they had performed admirably under his son's command. Legolas had sent two runners back to the stronghold as soon as the threat had been detected. The only blessing of the attack being so close to their home was that the runners did not have far to travel. Word had reached the stronghold quickly, and reinforcements had been sent out immediately.
The patrol held off the orcs until those reinforcements arrived. All of them were tiring, but they fought on. They had no choice. When one elf fell with injury, the foul creatures converged upon him, determined to end the immortal life.
Legolas had intervened.
But for all his skill and experience, one elf could only hold off so many orcs.
You cannot save everyone, my son. And if you try, you will surely fall yourself.
The other warriors fought to reach their prince's side, but they were not quick enough and they were separated from him by too many orcs. They saw, but could not stop the chain of events that had been set into motion.
A fatal blow meant for the fallen warrior had instead hit his son. Attacked from all sides, Legolas could not block it and defend himself properly. The heavy axe had bludgeoned its way past his son's knives and into his side.
The healers had told him it was not as bad as it could have been; they told him the blow would certainly have killed Legolas had he not slowed the blow. Torn flesh, broken ribs, blood loss. Thranduil had no desire to imagine how bad it could have been. It was bad enough, but Legolas could recover.
Even now, the other warriors whispered of what had happened, of his son's bravery. He had been a flurry of movement—knives flashing and limbs twisting in a deadly dance so fast that even elven eyes struggled to follow his motions.
All of that motion was now gone. The only motion left in its place was the barely there rise and fall of a chest as lungs struggled for air. This motion so small, so imperceptible that even elven eyes struggled to see it.
Stillness.
It was rare for his son to be this still. Even as an infant, he had rolled sooner than his parents had expected. After that, there was no stopping him. Walking, running, riding, climbing trees—Legolas was always in motion.
Even now, as a warrior and a prince, he was only still when there was need for stealth or injured. And even injured, stillness like this was rare—and unnerving. Legolas would move, stretch, test the limits of his movement, often before the healers wanted him to do so.
In council meetings, his son would bounce his leg, stopping only when he caught his father's glare pointed in his direction. Thranduil believed that this restless habit had started innocently enough, but suspected it was now intentional, done to annoy and test him.
The only time Thranduil saw Legolas truly still was when he aimed his bow far off in the distance and concentrated his entire being on his target. But that was a stillness filled with strength. This stillness was the absence of strength.
Move, Legolas. Move, and show me your strength. The king was used to his commands being obeyed.
Death again came unbidden to Thranduil's mind. His queen had been this still the last time he saw her. Legolas had been still that day too—frozen by grief. But that had not lasted. The grief had given way to rage that spurred Legolas to move and not stop, as though he believed he could outrun the raw pain that threatened to consume him. He ran. He ran to the forest and raced his way through the trees. He tried to disguise his actions as training. When he returned, he went straight to the archery fields and fired arrow after arrow after arrow into the targets. When one arm grew too tired to continue, he simply switched to the other arm. Arm guards forgotten at best, deliberately ignored at worst, his arms blossomed with purple and blue bruises.
Thranduil stared at the still being on the bed with an intensity that might have willed someone less stubborn than his son to wake up and stop making a king wait. But his son was unmoved, and unmoving.
It struck Thranduil that when Legolas had stopped moving, his world had too. Everything came to a halt. This was not how a king was supposed to act! He should be taking action now, ensuring the patrols were properly restoring their security, but here he sat. He trusted his war minister and advisors well enough. They could handle this for now. He would allow himself these few hours. Whatever did or did not happen, he would return to his duties at dawn. He prayed that something would happen before then to give him hope.
Thranduil thought back to his son's dramatic arrival home. The only treatment he had received in the field was a basic wound dressing—a bandage wrapped tightly about his torso in an effort to slow the bleeding.
The king had been in the courtyard inside of the gates. Normally, he would have been in his council chamber, but an attack so close to the stronghold warranted the king's presence wherever the information was the most current. He had been consulting with his war minister and they were getting the most recent updates from returning warriors and issuing commands to those departing. Chaos surrounded him, but he was immune to it and ignored everything except that which warranted his attention.
He had barely glanced up when the horse bearing two riders clattered into the courtyard. But the gleam of golden hair caught his eye and he turned to face the horse—his son, trained to analyze information and give reports, would surely have better information than those to whom he had spoken already.
The horse came to a stop, Thranduil's heart along with it. The rider behind Legolas was the only thing keeping his son upright. Legolas head kept dropping, his arms hung limply at his sides. Blood stained the bandage that had been hastily wrapped around his middle. Blood also gleamed on the horse's coat and the arm of the warrior supporting him.
"Healers! I need a healer!" the warrior had called desperately.
The warrior's panicked voice spurred Thranduil into action. He raced to his son's side, war minister forgotten. He reached up and wrapped strong arms around his son, careful to avoid the bloody areas and cautious of other injuries not revealed by blood.
"My king," the warrior bowed his head.
Thranduil brushed off the courtesy, now was no time for such formalities. His son may be dying. One healer ran up to them, then another. Thranduil was brushed aside easily. When a dying warrior needed help, it was the healers who took control, not royalty.
The healers began questioning the warrior before he even had the chance to get down from the horse: What happened? How long ago? What of the weapon the dealt the blow?
Poison, Thranduil thought absently, they ask about the weapon because they worry about poison.
His gaze sharpened on his son, who was neither conscious nor completely gone. His son would force his head up, breathe in raggedly as though about to try to speak, only to abandon the effort halfway through and let his head drop back down.
A healer pressed a bandage to his son's side firmly. That garnered a reaction, his son's body jerked sharply, his breathing cut off with a sharp exhale. The healer absently murmured words of comfort.
Another healer joined them and then they were moving his son. Pulling Legolas away from him and toward the healing wards.
Thranduil stood unmoving in the courtyard.
"My king," the war minister said cautiously. Thranduil turned to look at him, shock and dismay written on his face. The war minister bowed his head, "Go, my lord, be with your son. I can handle this."
Thranduil followed the healers in a daze, still not fully comprehending what had happened.
In the healing wing, Thranduil had been shunted to the side while the healers worked. He stood awkwardly near the wall, not quite hovering, but refusing to leave. He was not used to feeling out of place anywhere in his kingdom. He was the king, he belonged wherever he went.
He watched as the healers converged around his son. Later, he learned what they had been doing. Opening the wound further so they could clean it properly, setting ribs, stitching the wound. They cleaned the other cuts and scrapes they found and spread a soothing ointment over forming bruises as well—the other injuries so minor they would not have warranted a trip to the healers at all. They forced a tea down his throat to prevent the fever they feared would come and to ease the pain that plagued his son.
That had been hours ago now. Since then he had sat at Legolas's bedside, nearly as still as his son was. Legolas had developed a mild fever, but he had been told that was to be expected. No sign of poison had revealed itself and the healers no longer worried about that particular danger, thank the Valar. The wound was grievous, but Legolas would likely recover fully. He would need time and rest. The biggest danger now was the blood loss. The blood loss, the healers had told him, was the cause of the stillness.
His eyes drifted away from his son to the window. The gray light of predawn stained the eastern sky. His time here was coming to an end. Soon, he would have to move, even if his son did not. The healing ward was quiet now. The visitors from earlier had all gone home. The other injured slept peacefully. The healers moved about the room, silent save for the gentle swishing of their robes.
Thranduil pulled his chair closer to his son's bedside. He reached his hands out carefully, as though afraid Legolas might break. This stillness made his son, who he knew to be strong and capable, seem fragile. Gently but firmly, he gripped his son's hand in his own. He leaned forward and brought Legolas's hand to his lips and then lowered his head and rested it on Legolas's hand. The king bowed by fear, concern, and love to his son.
"Be well, my son," he whispered, "Be strong and come back to me."
He placed his son's hand back on the bed, but did not let go. He gripped it firmly, closing his eyes and gathering his strength—it would take all of his strength to walk away from his son.
Thranduil's head shot up—for the briefest of moments, he thought he had felt his son's fingers twitch. He had been hoping, wishing, that Legolas would grip his hand back. He felt nothing now, it seemed that he had imagined it…
But, no, he felt it again! The grip was weak, but this time persistent. The rise and fall of his son's chest changed too as Legolas forced in a ragged, but deeper breath. His eyelids flickered slightly.
"Legolas," Thranduil breathed, hardly daring to hope.
Fight, Legolas.
"Legolas," he whispered again, the name a prayer on his lips.
His son's head turned ever so slightly toward his voice. And slowly—painfully slowly—blue eyes opened and locked on his father's. It was a beautiful sight.
Movement…life.
End Note: That's all! I hope you feel it was worth your time! This idea came to me while I was working on a longer story. Half of the long story seemed to write itself, and then I completely stalled. It was my hope that writing this would get me going on the longer story again. I don't start posting stories until they are completely written because I don't want to leave something unfinished on the website or make readers wait for months for another chapter. Plus, I tend not to write the story in order and I rework sections as I go; I can't do that if I start posting when something's only half written. All that is to preface that I don't know when, or if, I will post again, but I hope you enjoyed this short story.
~Cool Breeze