Summary: Legolas and Aragorn ride ahead to Mirkwood to celebrate an
occasion but never make it.
Disclaimer: I don't own them for their own good.
A/N: Written for a challenge issued on Mellon Chronicles.
Chapter 7
The twins rode ahead, and the healers were waiting for Thranduil and the others when they arrived. Estel and Legolas were taken from their fathers and brought up to the healing ward, their injuries looking grave, if not fatal. Elrond wasted no time in following the healers, and within minutes he was barking out directions for them to follow.
Thranduil's head healer looked as if he would balk at the idea of being ordered around, but the stern glare from King Thranduil sent him running from the room to get the supplies. "Some of these wounds are superficial, both others are deep, to the bone in fact," Elrond stated while removing the dirty tunic that was wrapped around their hands.
Every elven healer in the room gasped aloud when they saw the gaping hole in Legolas' hand. "Will he ever be able to shoot again?" one dared to ask.
"If not he will be of no use to the hunting parties," the head healer offered. If he thought Thranduil looked livid before he did not expect to be grabbed by the elven king.
"You dare to speak of my son thusly! How dare you assume that he will not heal from his injuries, and should he not he will still be the heir to the realm of Mirkwood. Remove yourself from my sight."
The healer went scurrying from the room, and no other dared to question whether Legolas would recover, though they did wonder.
Elrond spent an hour cleaning the wounds on Legolas' chest and back, and wrapping them in fresh strips. Once this was accomplished he went to work cleaning the wound on his hand. The wound was deep, filled with dirt and grime. "I shall need alcohol to cleanse this wound properly." Some was brought to him, and he winced before he poured it in the wound. Elrond expected a reaction from Legolas, but the elven prince did not even flinch, a sure sign of his condition.
Elrond next moved to Estel's, whose wounds were being wrapped by the twins. Elladan had never looked so serious before, as he wrapped the ugly red gashes on Estel's back in the fresh strips of cloth. "He is well Ada. He needs medicine, but when I tried to give him some it dribbled down his chin."
Elrond stared at his son, and took the cup from Elladan to see if he could persuade his son to drink. He lifted the cup to Estel's mouth, parting his parched lips as he did. The cool water ran from the cup into his mouth, but soon it again ran from his mouth. "He is dehydrated, his throat more than likely swollen shut from it."
Elrond knew he needed to clean the wound on Estel's hand for it was caked in dirt, his wrists raw from the struggle against the ropes. "Elrohir, come, I have an idea." Elrond directed, handing the cup to Elrohir.
Elrond grabbed Estel up in his arms once more careful of his injuries, and in his hand he held the alcohol. He opened Estel's hand, staring down at the way it was much larger than Legolas', almost as if he had ripped it away from what was pinning it. He motioned for Elrohir to tilt the cup, and he began to pour the alcohol on the wound. Though Estel was not awake he fought against his father's help. His mouth opened as if to scream, but his throat was too parched, so that the only sound was a whisper struggling to be a scream. The water Elrohir had poured in went down his throat, soothing it somewhat.
Elrond exhaled, having rubbed the salve onto the wound, and wrapping it, but he was not prepared for what happened next ... neither was anyone else in the room.
Estel's throat that had been deprived of liquid for so long now began to choke. Once he regained his breath he started to scream, a garbled scream of nonsense. "What does he speak of?" Elladan asked, hoping his father could make some sense of the nonsense.
Elrond was about to tell his son he had no idea when Estel's words began, frantic. Though the blackness of unconscious still claimed him, he begged for the men to stop hurting Legolas. He begged for sympathy all in the room knew had not been given. It was as he spoke of the men, and their vile thoughts that all were horrified. None of them had known what their sons went through, for neither had woken.
"Make him stop!" One of the healers yelled, unable to listen to the constant screaming. Elrond placed his hands on Estel's forehead, sending him what he hoped were soothing thoughts. The screams lessened until at last they were nothing. Elrond sighed, but the twins and Thranduil were now full of another rage. "They have tried to steal what is not theirs to take!" Elladan ranted.
Elrond's eyes glistened with tears. Those who dared to look in Thranduil's direction saw he too shared in the anguish over his son. "I am glad those who have done this are dead."
"They deserved no less for what they did!" Elladan proclaimed.
Elrond placed the covers tightly around Estel, to keep him from falling off the bed. Estel had been thrashing for the past ten minutes as if he were fighting off some assailant, and yet his hands did not move from above his head. It was like Estel did not know he was now free from his bonds.
Little did the occupants of the room realize that all had not perished.
Amras had gone to gather firewood, his attention grabbed by as usual by the thrill of hunting a nearby rabbit. It was a passion of his to hunt down rabbits, squirrels, almost anything that he could. His mother had sent him along with his brother Boritan hoping to curb his lust for the kill of the hunt.
As Amras walked back into the campsite to yell of his find, he discovered nothing but bodies. The ground was saturated with blood, the flies starting to collect on the dead. Amras dropped the rabbits, running to where his brother stood. Boritan had taught him about the kill, about hating elves and what they stood for, their race, everything about them. Amras had been glad when his mother had sent him along in fact, and Boritan had spoken of how proud he was when Amras helped beat the elf and human.
Amras made his way through the bodies, stepping over limbs that had been severed. Amras then came to a stop. There was his brother, there was Boritan. Amras sat among the dead, his friends, his brothers in arms and plotted the demise of the elf and human. The guards, the other elves, even the King of Mirkwood would not hinder his plan to one and for all kill the elf and human as his brother had intended to do.