Oropher peeled open his eyes. His heart sat up in his stomach. Pillows against his back and the white ceiling above relieved him. He braced his hands against the mattress and pushed himself upright. He hissed as his body came alive with pain—the smallest cuts to the gash in his stomach cried out.

Oropher lay back and shut his eyes until his dizziness passed. He knew this room. With its floor length windows overlooking the back garden, the beds with towering, carved, headboards and plain furnishings, this was the single small healing chamber in the summerhouse. His summerhouse.

Where were his healers? His attendants? Thranduil! His son. His heir!

Oropher forgot his pain. He circled the room with his eyes until his restless gaze settled on the bed parallel to his separated by a nightstand and ten feet. Thranduil tossed under his covers, his face a taunt with pain.

The door to the room swung open and Onyx strode in, his steps as somber as his face. He put a hand on Thranduil's shoulder, and the touch soothed him somewhat. His eyes—cold eyes turned to Oropher at the King's beckoning. Stiffly the elf bowed and approached the bedside.

"What happened?" Oropher demanded. Meant to be strong, his voice rasped out. "Where is my wife?"

"You know where she is, my king," Onyx answered.

Oropher clenched his hands. "Tell me!"

Onyx lifted his chin and clasped his hands behind his back. "The Queen and my mother strolled the back gardens, my king. They were attacked—I was not in time to save them." He blinked once, twice, thrice.

"Attacked by whom?" Oropher breathed.

"Orcs, my king. I recall insisting the southern territories were not yet suitable for the swordless."

Oropher's taunt body sank back. The room blurred. He was alone. Natelle was gone. "I felt her die."

"To Mordor with her!" Onyx snarled. He leaned close and his anger, his grief, and his hate, focused. "I felt my mother die. Her death is on you."

Oropher could not muster the strength or anger to face the elf's fury. He looked away. "Where are my healers?"

Onyx laughed bitterly. "Dead, my king, along with those servants who did not flee. The orcs ransacked and polished this decrepit summerhouse with elvish blood."

"You mean—it is only us? Only us left?"

Onyx's lips curled. "Yes, my king, it is only us. I am sorry we are not good enough for you. Perhaps if you had listened for once in your Valar cursed life—my mother would not be dead—cut into pieces! You are lucky I am my father's son, or I would kill you!"

Thranduil jerked upright in bed, his eyes blank, and screamed, "Ada!"

Onyx turned too late for Oropher to miss the tears well in the elf's eyes. The anger slid off Onyx as he wrapped his arms around Thranduil and murmured, "He is not here, little brother, he is not here. I need him too."

Thranduil sagged against him. "Ada . . ."

Two servants crept into the room and dared suggest, "The Prince's father is over yonder. Perhaps he can help."

Onyx cut them in half with his eyes. "Over yonder lies a filthy shadow that crawled out of the gaping mouth of a slaughtered god. He is no father!"

As Onyx held onto his brother, he became aware the bandages around Thranduil's wounds were damp. Onyx lifted a hand, and it came away red. He turned to the servants. "Bring clean water."

"What do you know of healing?" Oropher asked hoarsely.

"I am more capable than those present," Onyx replied grimly. "I dispatched a servant to the palace, but I fear it will be days before he makes his destination. No, my king, we are truly alone, and your life is in my hands."

Onyx left Thranduil to fling open the door to the medicine cabinet between Oropher and Thranduil's beds. Thranduil's eyelids fluttered at the sudden loneliness he found himself in and he started.

Onyx threaded a needle with a shake of his head. "Sewing you up as I am able will help staunch the blood flow, but it is only a temporary fix, I fear. Without trained eyes on those injured blood vessels, you will die a slow death."

A commotion outside the door stung the air. A servant burst in with a bowl of steaming water, her face red and hands trembling. Another servant followed and exclaimed, "Forgive us, my king, but we could not keep him out!"

Harune stormed into the room. Oropher, who had often wondered if Harune had a spine, saw the air tremble around the elf. Harune's dark hair was uncombed, and his green robe rumpled and stained with blood and dirt. He clutched a sword and cast a gaze about the room. It chilled. "You will not keep me away from my family. Enough blood has been spilled I will not hesitate to spill a drop more!"

"Ada!" Onyx gasped.

Harune embraced Onyx and his warmth shared a cold bite of grief. "Natelle knew Thranduil would come, ion nin, and Marseille's summer home is nearby. I am afraid I was rudely brought along as a bargaining chip."

Onyx jumped out of Harune's grip with his lips curled back, but Harune shook his head slightly and drifted across the floor to Thranduil's bedside. At his touch, Thranduil's eyelids stopped fluttering and the room relaxed in relief.

Harune held onto his son and breathed deep to steady his horror at the bloody bandages holding Thranduil together. He rose to help Onyx. "He has to live, Onyx, he has to. I did not know—I am not feeling our bond as clearly as I am used to . . ."

Onyx tore the thread and knotted it. "No time to waste in idle chatter."

The elves worked in silence over Thranduil. His dreary sleep was not enough to dull the pain of the needles whipping close the holes in his flesh; Thranduil tossed.

"It will not stop the bleeding," Harune said softly. He stepped back and washed the red off his hands. "It will help."

Onyx turned on Oropher and presented him with a stick to bite on. Oropher winced at the elf's near attack of his body. Harune said, "It is not his fault your mother is dead, ion nin."

The needle shook in Onyx's hand, funneled hate into Oropher. "How can you stand there and accept it? She is gone. She is dead! How can you say—it is not his fault—it is!"

"I have you, Onyx, and Jade, and Thranduil. Because Sapphire knew it was her time. Because I already said goodbye. That is how I can stand here and try not to hate."

Onyx knotted his thread. "I was not ready to say goodbye, ada." He left the room with his hands unwashed and clenched at his sides.

Harune closed his eyes briefly before he finished his work with the needle. The stitches were careful and precise, but Oropher's angry skin still flushed hot under the bandages. Oropher spat the stick out of his mouth. His eyelids sank into his eyes.

"I am afraid it may have been a bitter wood, my king" Harune said quietly.

The room greeted him with silence. Sunlight settled in the corners. Harune sat beside Thranduil for two minutes. His heart beat with the hearts in the room. What to do? How to keep his family alive? He rose. His feet carried him toward what was left of the kitchens. Thranduil and Oropher too had to eat.

He walked back to the sickroom with his tray through the ravaged halls of the summerhouse. Marble lay shattered and tapestries torn to ribbons. Dying torches smoked pitifully. Harune fancied he glimpsed the sky through a hole burned in the roof.

Upon entering the sickroom, Harune found Hyrondal staring down at Thranduil.

"You should rest," Harune said.

"I cannot sleep," Hyrondal answered. He pulled a chair away from a table in the corner and sat down.

"Are you hurt?" Harune asked.

"Scratches," Hyrondal murmured. He crossed his arms over the back of the chair and rested his chin on them. He accepted the cup of bone broth Harune handed him.

"You saved their lives," Harune said.

"But now they are dying," Hyrondal whispered. "There are no healers to be had out here in—in this cursed land."

Harune's hand clenched involuntarily on the cup he held. His grip almost broke the clay. "I know."

Thanks kindly for reading! Hopefully this chapter was a turmoil you enjoyed.

Dream plane: Thanks for sharing your thoughts! Love knowing you are a suspense kind of person . . . 3

Next Chapter: A unique form of aid . . .