Authors Note: Originally this had been intended as a one shot, but thanks to my friend, Schattenjagd , who suggested this be continued, I have added to the plotline and have more in mind as well to continue it. I apologize for the long delay. I never intended multi-chapters in my stories as the life of a single mom can be overwhelmingly hectic at times and I have a difficult time writing regularly. For all the readers who are still around and read it, a great big "Thank You" for reading and reviewing on my stories. Also, to those anonymous reviewers who so kindly stuck up for me a while back, a great big "Thank You" as well. I wish I could have replied to each of you individually, but you commented as guests. Hopefully the rest of the story will come much sooner than this chapter did!

Rating: K+ for descriptions of injuries and treatments.

Fever!

Long into the night Thranduil watched over his injured son, giving him water and comfort during the few times he was actually awake and cognizant, along with special pain-killing herbs and medicine to fight infection. At other times when Legolas was sleeping he would bath his forehead in cool water, change his bandages, and sit beside him holding his hand and singing softly as he slept. More oft than not he found himself repeating songs from when Legolas had been a little elfling, bringing back nostalgic memories of when his son was still young enough to rock and sing to sleep and keep safely within his grasp. How he wish he did not have to send him out to face danger at such a young age.

As he thought back over the last few years that his son had been forced to join the patrols and add his significant weaponry skills to the Mirkwood military, Thranduil felt a wave of something very close to jealousy spike through his heart as he thought about how Imladris did not have to fight these daily battles and could be generous and sparing with their elflings' childhoods. He hated having to watch his too-young elfling come home with injuries and scars both physical and emotional.

Ah well, it was no use dwelling on what could not be changed. As long as the shadow persevered, he had little choice in the matter. He wondered if he should send Legolas to Imladris for a while though, so that he could get a nice rest, especially after this latest bout of injuries. He did not seem to be healing as well as usual, and he was certain that the injury was getting infected already…

Right before the sun crept over the horizon to greet the new day, Legolas let out a soft groan of pain, surprising Thranduil. He was rarely verbal with his pain, and Thranduil instantly was at his son's side, laying a gentle hand on his forehead. He frowned at the heat radiating off of the pale brow.

Infection, then. It was as he feared. He grabbed the cloth he had set aside during the night and soaked it once more in the bowl of cool water on the nightstand, draining it out and laying it against the heated flesh of his son's brow. Legolas groaned once more, tossing his head and trying to remove the cold sensation from his head.

"Shhh, ion-nin. I have you. All is well…" Thranduil tried to soothe the distraught young elf, laying his other hand on the youth's chest and sending waves of healing strength through the lithe form. Though not as much as what Elrond might have accomplished, it was enough to relax the young warrior prince and bring some semblance of awareness back to him.

"A-ada? I do not understand… why do I feel so strange? What has happened?" Legolas reached a hand up weakly to clasp his father's tunic sleeve.

Thranduil laid aside the cloth and placed his hand over his son's. "You are injured, child. Do you not remember?"

Legolas winced as his memory began to creep back, though all was still a bit foggy to him. "Aye… sorry, Adar…" he muttered as he remembered that he had tried to hide his injuries from his beloved father and how disappointed he had been in him.

"Hush, penneth," Thranduil soothed, clasping his son's heated head in his hands and placing a gentle kiss on his brow. "There is no need to apologize, Legolas. Your wound is infected and has given you a high fever. I fear that I am going to have to seek out a healer after all. I wished to wait until you had awoken, however, knowing your propensity for disliking healers…"

Legolas winced once more, a look of despair crossing his fair face. "Nay, Adar… you are an excellent healer. Why cannot you help me instead?"

Thranduil groaned inwardly at the pleading look, wishing he could help his son in this matter. "I'm sorry, child. I'm not nearly good enough for an injury such as this, and I dare not take any chances. I will choose Nimbrethil however. You seem to like him well enough."

Legolas sighed, realizing his 'look' would accomplish naught in this case and giving in gracefully, almost too gracefully to his father's watchful eyes. "Aye… I will take Nimbrethil. He is good and kind…"

"And the same as an uncle to you," Thranduil smirked, "one that spoils you at every opportunity…"

Legolas looked sheepish. "And that…"

Thranduil smiled, happy that his son was well enough to have this discussion at all. He could tell the fever was rising, however, from the bright red spots on Legolas' cheeks and the thin bead of sweat on his forehead. Elves did not generally sweat at all, so it was a fine indicator of something seriously wrong. He rose, patting the hand gently that still held onto his cloak. Legolas almost reluctantly released his grip, pulling his hand under the covers as he shivered. Thranduil flashed him another comforting smile and slipped quickly out of his chambers to alert the guard outside to fetch a healer. He then came back in and resumed his spot beside Legolas, helping him with a glass of water before covering him back up to rest.

As Thranduil smoothed a slender hand soothingly over his son's forehead and hair, Legolas closed his eyes and sighed. "Hannon le, Ada," he breathed wearily, snuggling under the blanket in an attempt to stop shivering. Thranduil began to sing one of the old elvish tree songs to his son to distract him, but was interrupted by an auburn-haired elf bursting through the door in a rather inappropriate manner, though excusable under the circumstances, piercing green eyes sharp with concern. His fair face was flushed with worry and breathlessness, his long hair haphazardly tied back in the manner of the elven healers as though he had tied it in haste. He had in one hand his healer's bag, and he barely took the time to close the door behind him, showing the messenger guard peering in for a glimpse of his prince, concern on his face as well.

Thranduil could not fault either for their proprietary behavior, both having watched Legolas grow from a baby elf and having spent much time caring for him. He would have to remember to let the guard, Nardol, know how Legolas was doing… His gaze turned to Nimbrethil, who was already perched on the side of the bed checking over Legolas, taking his vitals, frowning at the heat he felt as he smoothed a gentle hand over the elfling's forehead, then lifting up his shirt to examine the carefully placed bandages beneath.

Legolas opened his eyes at the ministrations, flashing a weak smile at the healer he knew so well. "Hello, Uncle," he said softly, reaching out a hand to grab Nimbrethil's robe sleeve.

Nimbrethil smiled, making a valiant attempt to cover up his worry from the elfling who knew him so well. He stopped for a moment and reached up a hand to smooth back some stray hair from Legolas' forehead. "Hello, elfling… looks like you've been offering yourself up for shooting practice again…"

Legolas made a movement of his lips that was half grimace, half smile. "Aye..." he whispered softly. "Sorry, Uncle. I could not resist…"

Nimbrethil smiled sadly at the elfling's ability to offer humor even when in the throes of what was a dangerously high fever. He went back to loosening the bandages and checking the wound over carefully, nearly sending Legolas back into oblivion from his poking and prodding, despite his gentle touch. The healer frowned as he turned back to an anxious Thranduil. "It is badly infected and will need additional treatment. It may be painful," he warned then, "and I dare not give him anything for the pain with a fever so high. I will, however, give him something that will lower the fever and hopefully help to fight off the infection."

Thranduil nodded, sadness in his eyes at his elfling's suffering. "Do what you must."

Legolas turned his head sideways and lowered his gaze immediately at Thranduil's words, staring dully at the sheet he was lying on as though it held something fascinating on the material. His face had paled considerably, and the astute king noticed his young son's reaction instantly, sitting down at the head of the bed and tilting Legolas' head back towards him with one hand under his chin. "What is it, elfling?" he asked softly, his eyes filled with concern.

Legolas flushed and tried to avert his gaze again, but Thranduil would not allow him to do so. "Nay, penneth. Did we not have a nice discussion earlier? I thought we had decided to be more honest and forthcoming with each other from now on… If something is the matter, I would have you tell it."

Biting his lip, the young prince met his father's eyes with large blue ones filled with misery. "You do not mind…" he started, then stopped for a moment to draw in a shuddering breath before starting again. "You do not mind… if this hurts me…" He managed to evade Thranduil's hardening gaze then by closing his eyes against the perceived onslaught of anger he felt was forthcoming.

Thranduil's eyes widened and his expression turned grim. Apparently, there was much more discussion to be had, and perhaps even more action, before his young son would not think his father wished to hurt him. He frowned, squeezing Legolas' chin until the younger elf opened his eyes once more. Nimbrethil, who had been waiting at the end of the bed for the royals to finish their discussion, hoping the king would help soothe the sickened child, made a sudden movement forward, his hand edging out in front of him as though he was going to pull the king away. He saw Thranduil shoot him a warning glare, the type that no one messes with unless they wish to be thrown into the southern border patrol for the next one hundred years, and pulled his hand back to rest in his lap.

"Legolas…!" Thranduil said warningly. "I have already told you, what you believed to be true has been a misguided farce all along. "Do not belittle me in such a way! I do not wish you to hurt at all, penneth, and I think if you search deep in your heart you will see this is true. You heard Nimbrethil, however. This treatment is necessary or you will become even sicker. I only wish you better, no matter how painful the treatment may be for a time. Do you understand, little one?"

Embarrassed and exhausted, Legolas tried to pull his head away from the tight grip on his face, a lone tear trickling down a too-pale cheek. The young elf was beginning to realize he was overreacting, but was too unstable from his high fever to think rationally at the moment. Thranduil, recognizing that his young son had reached his limits on what he could process, sighed lightly, reaching over and pulling him gently into an embrace, ignoring the dark glare Nimbrethil shot him.

"Thranduil…saes…his injuries…!" The distraught healer began to wring his hands together.

Thranduil merely held his son for a moment, pressing the younger's head into his own strong shoulder and smoothing back the blonde hair on the back of his head with a familiar and comforting hand. Legolas reached up and clutched his father's tunic front almost desperately. "I am sorry, Adar," he whispered, his voice muffled from the cloth on Thranduil's shoulder.

"Nay, little one. Do not fret. Let us get this over with, shall we? Then you can rest and start healing properly. Everything else can wait." Thranduil pulled back, laying the young prince ever so carefully back against the pillows. He smiled down at the weakened young warrior, taking a thumb and brushing away the tear still on Legolas' cheek, then holding his cheek for a moment. "I will be right here, Legolas. You may break Ada's hand if it is necessary to help you through the treatment."

Legolas laughed lightly, making the spacious, darkened room instantly brighter and causing the elder elves' eyes to light up happily, overjoyed to see the younger elf forget his pain for even a moment.

Nimbrethil grinned at his young patient fondly, squeezing Legolas' knee, then patting it. He caught Legolas' eyes, his expression turning serious. "You should probably take your Ada up on his offer, penneth. He will need to hold your arms steady as well, for I must not have any distractions, no matter how painful it becomes."

Legolas nodded, a defeated look spreading over his fair features that nearly broke the elder elves' hearts. Nimbrethil swallowed against the guilt that rushed through his chest as he quickly rose and poured some water from the large pot over the crackling flames in the fireplace into a small bowl, then brought it and some cloths and various healing supplies back over to the bed, setting them down beside the young elf's chest as he sat down near Legolas' waist for ease of access to the wound. Thranduil leaned over and held Legolas firmly by the upper arms after bending them at the elbow and laying them facing up towards the top of the bed. That way he was leaning over both portions of the arm, making it more difficult for Legolas to reach the healer if he started flailing in pain.

Seeing that the king was holding his son securely, Nimbrethil sighed, leaning over and placing a cloth he had dipped in the scalding water to the young elf's infected wound on his chest. "Forgive me, little one," he said woefully, then lowered the cloth against the inflamed skin.

Legolas screamed, his entire upper body rising up off the bed in agony as he thrashed and tried to turn to get away from the scalding heat on infected, painful skin. Thranduil tightened his grip on his son, pressing his lips so firmly together that they turned white, while trying to avoid looking at Legolas' chest in fear that he would fling the healer away from his son to keep him from any more pain. Calming a little after the initial shock, Legolas bit hard into his lower lip, trying desperately to hold back any more screams so that he would not look weak in front of the older elves, but could not prevent his body from trying to shrink back against the bed to escape what Nimbrethil was doing.

The poor, distraught healer tried to hurry the process, but it took time to draw out the infection as much as it needed to be. He pressed the cloth even harder against the wound in an attempt to draw out more of the infected secretions, and his young patient let out a muffled whimper, then slumped against the bed, going completely still. Nimbrethil jerked his head up, even while still holding the cloth against the wound, piercing eyes assessing his patient. Legolas' eyes were closed and his face was as white as the sheets he was lying on. Concerned, he flashed Thranduil a look. The equally concerned father felt for a pulse on the young prince's neck, breathing a sigh of relief and nodding to his friend when he felt a weakened but steady heartbeat thrumming against the two slender fingers he was pressing against Legolas' neck.

Nimbrethil sighed as well, turning back to his work. It took another ten minutes or so before he felt satisfied at the amount of infection he had drawn out, and he found himself grateful that the young elf had passed out so that he would not have to endure more pain. There was a reason that healers should not work on their loved ones, he thought woefully as he finished placing a healing salve on the gash, leaving it open to drain and placing a light bandage over it. It was not easy at the best of times to cause one's patient pain, but when said patient was a beloved elfling that he had known since just a babe, it was nearly impossible to force oneself to carry out painful methods of treatment. He was glad it was over. He only hoped it would not be necessary again.

The distraught healer lightly rubbed some soothing salve over the rest of the bruises and scratches on his young patient's chest, then pulled up the white sheet to Legolas' neck, placing his hand for a moment against one pale cheek, as though in silent apology for the pain he had caused, his eyes filled with remorse.

Thranduil had already loosened his hold on his son's arms and placed them carefully under the sheet, gently rubbing at the spots where he had been forced to use his strength to restrain the hurting elfling. He sighed sadly, hoping he would not see bruises the next day on the slender arms of his son, yet knowing it was likely. He had just recently promised his son he would not hurt him in such a way, and now his poor son would bear bruises from his hands… He leaned over and placed a light kiss on Legolas' forehead. "Goheno nin, penneth," he whispered sadly, patting the younger elf on the shoulder over the sheet. He then rose from the bed and began to pace restlessly around the room, the worry and strain proving to be too much for his shattered nerves.

Nimbrethil busied himself with putting away the healing supplies and preparing another cup of medicinal tea for when the child awoke. He then sat down in the chair beside the bed, one hand placed lightly over the youth's heart so that he could keep a close watch on the young elf. He looked over at Thranduil, curiosity in his eyes. "I know the wound is serious, my friend, but I have rarely seen you so distraught over a battle injury. I would also wish to know about Legolas' comments to you about not caring if he was hurt… Forgive me, but something seems amiss here, and I would hear it if you would indulge me…"

Thranduil stopped his frantic pacing, glanced once more at the still unconscious elfling in his bed, then walked two steps over to the window, sitting back against the sill with his hands placed on either side of him holding onto the frame. He lowered his head for a moment, then raised it, sorrow spread liberally over his features.

Nimbrethil had been with Thranduil for centuries. He was among the few that could count themselves as friends to the reclusive king. He could see the sorrow in his friend's features, but he could also read beyond that to the extreme anger lurking in those cold, blue eyes. He raised an eyebrow and waited patiently.

His patience was rewarded when Thranduil sighed heavily, meeting his old friend's eyes as he began to explain the circumstances that had led to him discovering these particular battle wounds, along with the discovery that there was an actual reason behind Legolas' fear that his father would hurt him. When he got to the discussion with Legolas about Astaldo, Nimbrethil shot to his feet, clenching his hands together. If not for his patient, Thranduil was quite sure his old friend would have leapt out the door in search of the unaware Astaldo and given him a very rude awakening.

"How can this be, Thranduil?" Nimbrethil cried, his face filled with horror. "All these years? And we knew nothing of this? The poor child has been living in such fear and worry all this time, unable to feel secure in his familial love, because of this… this… MONSTER!"

Thranduil sighed, regret on his own face. "I do not know how we missed this, but miss it we did. We cannot undo what has happened, but it certainly does explain some of Legolas' reactions over the course of the past years… And I have punished him at times for these reactions…" The king sighed again, lowering his head, long silver-blonde hair flowing forward to halfway cover his fair features.

Nimbrethil stiffened. "What type of punishments?" he asked slowly, a suspicious look entering his eyes.

Thranduil frowned, raising an eyebrow as though daring his friend to come out and accuse him of something. "And what exactly are you thinking, "old friend"…" he said very quietly.

Nimbrethil was old, just as old as Thranduil. He was not intimidated in the least. "Exactly what you think I mean," he said just as quietly. "The child is living in fear and faring poorly, Thranduil. I wish to know why. As his healer, I demand it, as a matter of fact."

Thranduil—proper elven king though he was—literally growled then, clenching his hands into fists and standing slowly to face Nimbrethil. Nimbrethil stepped back a pace towards his young patient, stretching out a hand behind him as though to protect him from his father's rage. Thranduil, seeing his old friend's subconscious reaction, stopped cold in his tracks, his anger drifting away with the wind at the realization that the healer felt he needed to protect Thranduil's own son from him.

He sighed and turned away, running a hand through his loosened hair. His crown was set aside for now while he was with Legolas. "I am sorry, old friend," he said softly. "I understand why you are reacting that way, and in truth, I should be grateful to know that Legolas has at least one person here in the Keep that will care for him. The punishments I speak of are ones such as cleaning out the wine cellar, cleaning the stables, writing additional papers for learning, extra weapons practice… I only feel badly that the child was forced to toil so laboriously when he was perhaps ill at heart and in fear—nothing more…" The tired king turned to face the healer, who had relaxed his protective stance when Thranduil turned away and was standing beside Legolas' bed with hands clasped together in front of him, listening patiently.

Nimbrethil stepped forward then, placing his hand on Thranduil's shoulder and smiling at him. "I believe you, mellon-nin. I know that you would not harm your son. I just needed to make certain. The boy fares badly and something needs to be done. If you leave this matter unresolved and he gets injured in battle again, it may very well be the death of him because of his weakened state."

Thranduil frowned, worry once more leaping into his normally cold, grey eyes. "Is it that bad, then?" he asked softly, his tone managing to convey all of his doubts and fears in the one sentence.

Nimbrethil squeezed his shoulder, hoping to lend comfort for what must be said. "I did not wish to say anything in front of the child, but I have scarcely seen such a bad infection in an elf before. The wound was obviously left untreated for some time, which is scandalous to me. I cannot fathom how the realm's only prince could be so neglected that such a serious wound would go unnoticed by 'everyone' in the realm…"

Thranduil flushed. "I cannot answer for those on patrol with him, but I did notice the signs as soon as he returned from patrol to give me his report. I called him to my rooms and forced the discovery. He was not happy with me, I daresay…"

Nimbrethil frowned, lowering his hand from Thranduil's shoulder, walking over to the stand against the wall, and pouring himself a glass of wine from the ever-present wine-vase. He swirled it around in the cup for a moment before taking a sip, then turned back to Thranduil. "Who was present on this patrol?" he asked quietly.

The question might have seemed strange coming from a healer, but Nimbrethil had served with Thranduil at Dagorlad as his second in command. He was a fearsome warrior in his time with a quick and sharp intelligence for military matters, so Thranduil did not find it strange in the least. He merely thought for a moment before responding. "Legolas was in charge of this patrol, and he reported to me with his second, Imaldeus, along with his friend Alfirin."

"I see," said the elder healer as he sipped slowly from his wine. "It is strange that no one braved telling you about it any earlier… though perhaps if the young prince begged them to secrecy… I would be saddened to think he had feared punishment THAT badly from your hand that he would feel pressured to hide such a wound…"

Thranduil sighed, going over to pour himself another glass of wine as well, sitting down in the chair beside the fireplace as he sipped it. "I think that is the case, unfortunately. And I agree… this matter must be resolved swiftly. I had discussed it at length with Legolas. I think—I HOPE—he knows no such punishment would happen now, but if this fear has been nurtured for years, I do not know if it can truly be dismissed so easily…"

Nimbrethil glanced over at the still-unconscious Legolas, the concern clear on his fair face. "I do not think so. Much like the manner in which it has been slowly and steadily nurtured, it must be slowly and steadily dissolved." He turned to look at his old friend of the ages. "More importantly, though, is the necessity to ensure the source of this fear is eradicated…" he warned.

Thranduil smiled then, the type of smile that sent emissaries of men scurrying back to their villages, the type of smile that warned every resident of Mirkwood to stay indoors for the next week. Nimbrethil felt a light shudder run down his spine, one of heady anticipation. "Never fear," he assured his friend. "The Source will not go unpunished for long… I have given this matter much thought already. I shall think on it more tonight, but I will not allow this to stand for long. I would value your input as well, old friend, for this matter must be treated with 'special' care. I have several ideas, if you would care to hear them…"

Nimbrethil smiled then, his own smile equally disturbing. He could hardly have watched and cared over the young princeling for so long without feeling a slight desire for revenge, after all… "I would like nothing better," he assured the king, and the two discussed potential plans late into the evening, the peaceful realm unsuspecting in its slumber that their peace would soon be disturbed in more ways than one.