Disclaimer: All the recognisable things (hmm, in this chapter I think that amounts to Legolas, Thranduil, Elmo and Mirkwood) belong to Tolkien. The rest of the characters (except for the spiders, whom I wouldn't take if you paid me!) the gaping plot-holes and the awkward syntax are mine.

Dagor Nuin Yrn

Far and wide her lesser broods...spread from glen to glen...to Dol Guldur and the fastnesses of Mirkwood

Of Shelob, The Lord of the Rings, J.R.R. Tolkien

It had not been a particularly good week, all things considered. A few days previously, the detested Elves had come, killing many of his community: it was one thing when he wanted to get rid of them, but a completely different one when it was the Shining Ones who murdered them. As if that had not been bad enough, the invisible Sting had insulted them, robbed them of a rare meal of Dwarf, then slain many more of their kindred. Now, an Elf had ventured into their territory...he did not know what the purpose of the dark-haired one was, but his mate would see to it that it was not achieved. He knew better than to interfere with her when she was hunting, so hung back, observing. The Elf was caught, struggling in the web—but what was that?
A few hundred yards away another Elf perched in a tree, unaware of how a glint of sunlight caught in his hair, making him visible to the lurking spider, though not to his mate.

Like every spider he had been taught to hate the Shining Ones, with their sharp weapons and eyes that burned like stars, ever since he had lived with his brood of brothers and sisters further South in the Forest, and like every spider it was his ambition to catch one for himself. The dark ones were the most common, a good prize but not extraordinary since there were so many of them dwelling in their huts and houses of stone. Elves with silvery moon-hair were far more rare, and few indeed were the chances given to the spiders to trap one. But this one...though his clothes were no finer than those of his companion, the long hair that blew gently in the breeze gleamed golden like the Sun. The spiders detested her even more than they did the Moon, but that did not lower the value of this Elf: no-one had ever caught a gold-haired one. There was even a rumour that only the King of the Elves and his son were gifted with this particular trait...even if that were untrue, there could be no doubt that the capture of this Elf would prove him as a mighty hunter. His mate could have her prey, but he alone would bring back those plaits of gilded hair, a trophy like no other!

In his excitement and anticipation, however, he did not realise that the mind of the Shining One was also occupied with slaughter. Within a moment of the spider's first sighting him, the free Elf had moved to a position above the web, and had loosed an arrow into his mate. She fell silently, hitting the ground and lying still with her limbs sprawled around her. Anger filled the spider, for although he cared little for her she had been his mate, and her death could not go unavenged. He rose up on his long legs, body bristling and eyes fixed on the murderer, who now bent in an attempt to free his companion. It would not succeed. Both of them would be his, one for himself and one for the memory of his mate.

Carefully! It was said that the Elves could hear even better than a spider, and he could not risk alerting the golden-haired one to his presence or he too would feel the bite of one of those deadly arrows. Remaining in the shadows, a distance just far enough that the Elf would not see him in the gloom, he waited. He waited until the limp form of the dark one was almost released, waited until the golden one was lulled into a sense of security, unaware and heedless of the danger that lurked behind him—he would never know what bit him. It was a pity, really: the spider liked to feel power over his victims, enjoyed watching the fear creep into their eyes, revelled in the thought that they recognised him, knew that he would be the one to end their life.
He then sprang forward, joints creaking ever so slightly as he moved to within a few yards of the Shining One. But the Elf knew...just before he readied to leap and sting the creature into submission, the slim body turned, revealing a pale face framed by that golden hair.

There was no time for Legolas to curse his lack of care, no time even to draw his bow. Almost before he was aware of it, the spider was gathering itself, bounding across the gap that separated them to the broad branch on which he stood. The knife in his hand would be the Elf's only weapon, then, and he must use it well. As the beast bore down upon him he swung his arm, driving the knife into the nearest leg and cleaving off a claw. The spider shuddered and lurched, but to Legolas' surprise no howl of pain and rage rent the air, for it was as reluctant as its opponent to draw the attention of the other spiders to this prize: the battle would be between two alone.

Legolas crouched, tense as steel, taut as a bowstring, alert to the spider's every movement. Once more it charged forward, but this time he was more prepared and as it attempted to grab him in its pincers he raised his arm behind and above his head, then thrust it forward, burying the point of the knife in one of the eyes that glinted so maliciously. A flood of dark blood welled up and poured down his arm, splashing his head and face and soaking his sleeve. The spider drew back, trying to shield the vulnerable eyes from the hot, piercing blade. Its vision was now seriously impaired and agony was exploding in its head, but anger and the desire for revenge drove it on.

Thinking swiftly and moving instinctively, Legolas stood straight, facing the spider as it approached for a third time, limping badly and peering wildly from its remaining, stained eyes. It was a mad decision he made in that split-second, the move one that his old tutors would have condemned with stern reprimands and warnings of the certain fate of one who was so foolish, but he had little choice, for the enraged spider would not again allow him near its eyes. For what seemed an age he remained still, a figure of defiance before the nightmare bulk of his bleeding foe.
There is naught else I can do...if this fails-
Just when it appeared that he must be borne down and overcome, he dropped suddenly to the branch, rolling between the spider's feet as it staggered forward. It was put off balance by the sudden disappearance of the Elf, but one cruelly curved claw managed to trample him as he rose, crushing the flesh, bruising his side and taking his breath.
I will not have this chance again, Legolas thought desperately. It is a mistake to use the same trick twice.
Ignoring the pain that shot through him as he spun around, he lifted the knife for a mighty blow-please, let it be a young one-and drove the Elven blade through layers of tough, leathery skin. Terrible convulsions passed through the body as the spider screamed in anguish. Unable to keep its balance, it fell from the bough and dropped like a stone, unable even to curl its legs about it in the customary gesture of self-defence. It hit the ground heavily and twitched horribly for a few seconds before becoming still.

Too wary now to accept this apparent death, Legolas picked up his bow and sent one last arrow flying through the air to find its home behind the spider's eye. The movement of drawing the bow, however, sent a white-hot dart of pain through his chest and he doubled over, dropping the bow and blackened knife from fingers suddenly too weak to hold them.
Broken rib, if I am lucky, Legolas thought with grim irony. What more do you expect? he then chided himself. The Valar were guarding you today, you fool—such idiocy deserved no such good fortune.

Dragging himself along the branch, he glanced down at Culedhel, but the other Elf had remained unconscious throughout the entire battle, as indeed he had expected. Spider venom could easily render the victim insensible for an hour at least. There was little Legolas could now do, save wait for the rest of his patrol, but the inactivity vexed him greatly. He shifted position impatiently, supporting his aching ribs with the uninjured arm, and stared into the Forest: the two more or less defenceless Elves were now completely reliant upon the speed of their friends bringing rescue before the noise of the battle brought down more predators, and it was an uncomfortable position in which to be.

"We must hope that the rest are still cowering in their lair, for I would be but a poor protection now, Culedhel," he said softly. Only do not let them have brought an angry brood down upon themselves!
His fears were unfounded, however, for within a moment a light step upon the turf heralded the arrival of Annúmír with his four companions. At once Ornendil pointed to the unreceptive body of the trapped Elf, but there was confusion written on his face, for the large branch effectively concealed Legolas' form from those who stood below.
"Legolas?" his foster brother called quietly. "Are you here, gwador nín?"

Struggling to sit up, Legolas forced his muscles to obey his will and peered over the edge of the limb, but his "Yes" emerged as a gasp of pain.
"Captain!" Thôntir exclaimed, horrified to see the state into which their lord had managed to get himself. A second later Annúmír had sprung lightly up the tree and was bending over him, pulling open the fastenings of Legolas' tunic and examining the wound with compassionate eyes.
"Ornendil!" he said sharply. "Hand me up a bandage so that I can put his arm in a sling, will you? Oh, and do not fear, Thôntir," he added. "The blood is not Legolas'."
Legolas glanced down at himself and with a grimace added breathlessly, "Well, most of it is not, anyway!" There was a hint of wry humour in his tone and as the younger Elf hurried to comply with the request Annúmír turned back to his patient with the concern in his face considerably eased.
"I see that you have quite a tale to tell us, my friend," he commented dryly. "As well as fracturing the rib, the skin is broken...not a serious wound, but I shall salve it-if you can manage it, it would be helpful also to hold a covering over it. I cannot bandage it because of the broken bone, but it will be dressed properly when once we get back to the palace."

Pale-faced, Legolas nodded, but his grateful smile was somewhat strained as his friend gently lifted his arm and tied the sling. Thôntir stood below ready to help the injured Elf to the grass, while Eradan had climbed swiftly up the neighbouring tree from which the web had been strung and was engaged in slicing through the remaining bonds prior to lowering the still comatose Culedhel into Thorondur's waiting arms.
Ornendil, meanwhile, was now examining the spider corpses with disgust and appeared to be reconstructing in his mind the events that had led to their deaths.

With Annúmír's aid Legolas managed to walk to the treetrunk and climbed down; his movements were awkward since he had the use of only one hand. Thôntir supported him as he reached the ground and breathed deeply, recovering from the exertion.
"Where are the rest?" he asked faintly, but Annúmír shook his head sternly.
"All questions, reports and explanations will wait until after you have seen the healers, Legolas Thranduilion!"
Legolas raised a questioning eyebrow. "Is that an order, my lord Annúmír?" he asked teasingly.
"It certainly is...as I am currently your physician, I have a right to command you-and believe me, I shall take full advantage of the opportunity!"
"You know what a bad patient I make," Legolas retorted, but his friend only smiled, before turning to the others.

"These two ought to be brought to the palace as swiftly as possible, and since there are five of us-no, Legolas, you are injured, and for the moment do not count-I think we can manage without aid from the other patrols."
"If they were close enough to hear Captain Legolas' signals to us they shall be concerned, and we cannot simply neglect to return, or they shall be even more worried," Eradan pointed out from his position on the dirty branch, glancing between the injured prince and his foster brother.
"True," Annúmír agreed thoughtfully, "but the place where we separated is not far from here and the time assigned for our reunion is approaching: some at least should be within earshot if we signal again and tell them that all is well and that they should make their own way back to the palace."
"It seems we have been speaking a different dialect for all these years, after all," Legolas complained. "If this is your definition of "well" I do not think much of it!"

Annúmír, who knew the younger Elf better than almost anyone in Middle-earth, did not honour this comment with an acknowledgement and began instead to whistle between his fingers, a complicated series of notes that conveyed more information than anyone but a Wood-elf would have thought possible. This completed, he turned back to his patrol and issued succinct orders.
"Thorondur and Eradan can remain in charge of Culedhel, while I look after Legolas, and Ornendil and Thôntir go before and behind us-but tidy this place before we leave."
The four other Elves nodded and moved to do as Annúmír instructed, while Legolas' complaints were resolutely ignored.
"I have only broken my rib, not my head!" he exclaimed. "I am perfectly capable of dealing with my own men...for unnecessary fussing, you are as bad as Elladan Elrondion, I swear it, Annúmír!"
Far from becoming irritated, however, Annúmír seemed more complimented than insulted by the comment.
"If I was half the healer each of the sons of Elrond is, I would be well pleased," he said gravely. Legolas' face took on a particularly exasperated expression but he accepted his friend's decree without further remark.

"Do you wish us to craft a pair-" Thorondur began, but catching sight of the dangerous glint that flared in his captain's eyes he swiftly amended the words that Legolas had anticipated and said instead, "-that is, a litter for Culedhel?"
Legolas and Annúmír exchanged glances but it was the younger Elf who answered, "No, I do not believe that will be necessary. He is slight of build: the two of you can share the task of carrying him, which should allow us to return home with greater ease and speed. Besides," he added, limping over to inspect the unconscious Elf once more, "he may wake at any moment. The spider was neither large nor old and the venom should have run its course in a short time."
Nodding, Thorondur caught up Culedhel in his arms, settled him comfortably and strode out of the glade after Thôntir, who carried his bow and walked with the light step and ever-roving gaze of a scout by blood as well as training. Annúmír followed with Legolas reluctantly leaning on his arm, while Eradan and Ornendil, having set the bodies alight and finished their inspection of the site and retrieval of Legolas' arrows, brought up the rear, weapons in hand.

The return journey was for the most part carried out in silence, for although Culedhel stirred when passed between the two Elves, he had not yet fully awoken by the time they reached the palace. Annúmír, meanwhile, scolded Legolas into quiet if the injured Elf as much as appeared to be preparing to speak.
"Conserve your energy for walking, nor talking, gwador nín," he said with stern affection. "I know that it pains you when you attempt to talk and there is nothing so urgent that it cannot wait to be discussed until after we have seen Doronil."
After receiving this chastisement for the fourth time Legolas, who indeed had little desire to speak of the near-fatal disaster into which his part of the mission had deteriorated, did not attempt further speech, even when the sound of a distant skylark informed them that the rest of the company had been safely reunited and were about to begin their journey back to the palace.

Despite the pain in his chest, the even more bitter one in his heart and the awareness that an ill advised movement could drive the broken bone into his lung and suffocate him, Legolas was enjoying this necessarily slow walk through the forest. Of late years such times were rare and although he spent many of his days beneath the trees he was unable to truly appreciate it: the forest had become a place of concealed dangers, attack and resistance, warning and violence and there was little time to absorb her wonder and beauty.

But all the same, this is home, he thought contentedly. It was, in every sense of the word: he had been born here; had spent his childhood exploring the secrets of the ancient forest; had grown up knowing and loving the changing seasons of the woodland; had grieved at the Shadow that covered her and fought against it with all the strength he possessed; had spilled his blood in her defence. He was captain of these people, the son of the only kings the Silvan Elves had known. This place was steeped in his history, for long before, his forefathers had passed through the great forests on their journey East and legend whispered that in a glade not far from the palace his grandson constructed two Ages later, Galadur son of Elmo had been brought into the world.

The trees of this realm knew Legolas, had spoken to him and granted to him their love and allegiance when he was nothing more than a toddling child. Before his lips could form the words of Elves or Men, he had listened to the song of the trees, the theme of the Song of Arda devised by Yavanna. Then, it had seemed perfectly natural, Legolas reflected, something to be taken for granted. For him it still was thus, but as he grew older he had come to a knowledge that it was not so for all Men or even Elves, as he had supposed in his youthful naivety.

"You are a child of this forest, little Legolas. They recognised us, your grandfather and myself, as Elves of the woods and those charged with the guardianship of this place...we were born in Doriath, however, part of the great forests of long ago but alien to these trees. You are their own, Legolas—you belong to this place and it to you in a way that I can only remember, for my forest fell long ago.

His father's words had been accepted without second thought, for Legolas had already known the truth of them: he knew that this was where he belonged. "When I leave home," he had once told Annúmír after returning from one of his early visits to Imladris, "I am torn apart, I am not complete until I return. If I ever had to leave this place forever, if it was lost to me, I think so great a part of me would die that I could not survive."

He had never yet been forced to test the truth of his prediction, but certainly he was never more alive than when he allowed himself to merge with the music of the trees, to become a Woof Elf in the fullest sense of the term. He did so now, letting his heartbeat slow to the measured rhythm of the world about him, his senses perfectly attuned to everything that passed in Greenwood yet at the same time no more aware of them than he was of himself...they were himself.

A stream is nearby, rushing down over the rocks and sparkling in the afternoon light that slants down in great shafts through the gap in the trees. Over the years the water has washed away the soil and now the roots of tall trees are exposed, like twisting branches at the base of the trunk to correspond with those above. The sound of the water forms the melody to the accompaniment of the wind in the leaves, which are illuminated and glow as the golden sun passes through the green pigments. The sound of footfalls is hollow, echoing on the layers of roots and pine needles that form the forest floor. There are ripening berries in the undergrowth, crimson fruits that shine with a lustre rivalling rubies. Woodpigeons are calling to their mates, their soft voices rising above the other sounds of the forest. A white fawn gazes at the Elves with limpid dark eyes that show no fear of them or the bows they bear. All the time the trees are murmuring to one another, whispering rumours of change and bemoaning the injury of one of their own.

"Captain Legolas!"
After having been so long immersed in the gently soothing Music of the trees, even Thôntir's soft, lilting accents were unexpectedly loud and Legolas glanced sharply towards his companion before wincing as a sudden spasm of pain shot through his chest, reminding him of the injury he had sustained.
"I am sorry, my lord," the soldier apologised, "but we are almost at the bridge-do you wish to go directly to the healers' quarters?"
"What Legolas wishes is of little matter," Annúmír said briskly before his friend could reply. "He is going, along with Culedhel: you may report to the king and tell him where his son may be found."
"If I were a few centuries younger I would throw something at you," Legolas commented, apparently to the leafy canopy.
"As it is, I suspect that I may shortly have as much reason to regret your injury as you presently do: you have not changed, Legolas, only grown more subtle," the other returned with a knowing, rueful grin.

As they approached the river concealed guards in the branches above called down concerned questions, desiring to know what had befallen the son of the king.
"I am well, mellyn nín," Legolas invariably answered, summoning a reassuring smile and directing it towards the general area form which the disembodied voice had come, at which soft blessings and expressions of sympathy drifted down.

Before they reached the bridge several young ellyn who served in the palace came forth to meet them, carrying garbled tales of messages, commands and dying princes in addition to a pair of litters.
"But you see I am still very much alive, Lalvendor Nenturion," Legolas explained patiently to one particularly excitable youth. "Whatever Celon the doorward claims that Thalion told him must be a great exaggeration-and I do not need to be carried!" he finished, becoming considerably more exasperated as the eager young Elves encouraged him to lie down. "Put Culedhel on one, if it will satisfy you, and take him to Doronil as swiftly as you can."
"And tell him that Legolas Aryon shall be soon with him, needing treatment for broken bones, among other things," Annúmír called after them as they retreated the way they had come, this time weighed down by Culedhel's prostrate form.
"It really is very irresponsible of you, independent nature notwithstanding: walking miles with a broken rib, persisting in giving orders—I would have forced you to the stretcher, had I not known it to be more than my life is worth to do so!" he continued quietly in Legolas' ear.
"Ah, I am wounded and in pain; let me at least preserve a little dignity," Legolas pleaded teasingly as they arrived at the palace amid the distressed greetings of the doorkeepers. Annúmír pacified them before answering, "Dignity is all you shall have, tarlanc'u, for at least a week," the older Elf replied grimly. "Dignity, court robes, and all the administrative work you have been avoiding for months, for I shall personally ensure that you do not step through these doors until the healers allow it!"
"Annúmír!" Legolas moaned. "You would not do such a thing, not to your own little brother...and besides, you cannot!"

"Perhaps not, but I certainly can-and will!" a clear voice pronounced from the other end of the hall, before Lady Eluial appeared in a bustle of silken skirts and handmaidens.
"Legolas, my child! What have you done—what has happened to you?" she exclaimed, beautiful face shadowed with concern.
"Nothing you have not seen before, Mother," he returned dryly. "Little more than a broken bone and a few bruises."
"But the strain is making him short of breath and he was bleeding earlier," Annúmír added, completely disregarding the annoyed glance his friend shot him.

Despite his protests, therefore, Legolas found himself escorted ignominiously through the broad passages to the chambers where Doronil and his colleagues spent their days, an all-too-solicitous Elf on either side. The queen's ladies followed in a worried and sympathetic crowd, exclaiming at the terrible state the poor prince was in. Legolas, whose memory of events in the forest was currently rather blurred—odd, how everything seemed to be rising and falling out of focus—wondered what they could be talking about: after all, the broken rib was not visible, and if everyone would just leave him alone he would be able to make his report to his father as usual.

It was only when they had arrived in Doronil's antechamber and he had been seated on a cushioned couch usefully placed opposite a large mirror that he realised why he had been drawing so many dismayed and disdainful glances from those Elves less accustomed to battle and injury.
In addition to a heavy limp caused by his inclination to favour his wounded side, his face had been heavily bruised in the fight with the spider. His tunic was torn across his chest and the makeshift sling had half slipped from his shoulder and was stained with seeping blood from the cut above his ribs. All of his clothes had been splashed with the spider's dark blood while his hair and face were soaked in the thick liquid, which, he now realised, was the source of the stench that had been bothering him ever since Annúmír and his companions had rescued them.

"Oh, Elbereth," he murmured, gazing in consternation at the sorry reflection. "Naneth, did any of the children see me? I shall figure in their nightmares for months!"
Eluial smiled a little as she removed the spattered bandage with tender hands.
"Yes, this black haired, grimy and ragged soldier is a far cry from their well-clad Lord Legolas, with his shining hair and graceful stride," she admitted, before releasing a wave of pent-up emotion.
"Oh, child, you frightened me terribly-all the garbled rumours of your injury that came in with the warriors, and then seeing you thus-"
A distinctly offended expression crossed the dirty face below hers.
"You did not really think this filth could be my blood, did you, Mother?"
A muffled laugh from the other side of the room betrayed Annúmír, who was looking at the younger Elf with delighted amusement.
"Do not fear, Lady Eluial-he is already becoming proud and vain of his appearance once more: he shall survive!"
"If I were not incapacitated, you would wish that you had not said that," Legolas grumbled amiably.

One of her maids had brought his mother a large basin of warm water and a bundle of soft cloths. She dipped one in the water and began gently wiping the blood from his face and hands.
"You do not have to do this, Nana," he upbraided her lovingly, reverting to the childhood name that suited his child-like position.
"I know that, muin'u, but I want to. I am your mother, and no-one else has the right to touch my son...not for the moment," Eluial finished with a sigh. "And no," she added, smiling once more. "I knew that the black blood was not yours, but who could tell whether or not there was crimson mingled with it?"

It was at this point that Doronil entered through the door that led to his inner room. He had aided the healers in Menegroth and had been the master of those who ministered in Thranduil's halls for as Legolas could remember, and as such continued to treat Legolas as the Elf-child who had spent many hours waiting to have scraped knees and bruised elbows mended and eagerly watching as others were treated.
"Ah, ellon!" he now exclaimed. "What have you brought to me this time?"
"How is Culedhel?" Legolas asked in return, relieved but bemused by the smiles that sprang to the faces of the two apprentices who stood behind Doronil. The healer himself remained straight-faced but there was mirth lurking in the depths of his grey eyes.
"He shall do very well...we have removed the remnants of silk that bound him, and given him a draught to help with the nausea he will doubtless be experiencing."
"He is awake, then?"
Doronil hesitated, but one of the young Elves could not restrain himself and burst out, "Not quite, my lord. Certainly not conscious of what he does!" His companion covered his face with a hand and turned discreetly away, but Legolas was sure that the fit of coughing he appeared to be suffering from was not due to any natural cause.
"I am not going to ask," he said dryly, raising an eyebrow at the grinning young Elves. "I really do not want to know."
Annúmír's lips quirked upward. "From my knowledge of Culedhel, perhaps you are wise, although doubtless the tale would prove...interesting."
"Enough!" Doronil said sharply. "Come, my lady—will you help me bring your son inside?"

This time, Legolas' grumblings were spoken internally only, and he suffered the queen and the healer to half-carry him into a small bathing chamber off the main infirmary. It appeared that his guides had come to an unspoken agreement that to allow Legolas into the vicinity of clean linen and injured patients would be a very bad idea indeed.
While Doronil mixed a cup of various herbs—"And you suggested that I smell bad!" Legolas remarked. "At least I do not expect you to drink the dirty water!"—Eluial continued to wash away the blood and one of the apprentices carefully cut the tunic off in order to allow the healer to see the full extent of the injuries.

"One of your more impressive efforts, Thranduilion," he commented, approaching with cup in hand. "Drink this: it will ease the pain."
Legolas sniffed suspiciously. "I know what you put in this, Master Doronil," he said warningly. "I may be an archer rather than a healer, but I am not a fool."
"You need something to stop any bleeding, meleth," his mother said pacifically. "And if you want to maintain any hopes of returning to your outdoor duties before spring, you will take the boneset."
Immediately the cup was raised to Legolas' lips and the draught disappeared within seconds, but he could not prevent a grimace as the foul taste permeated his mouth and throat.

Ignoring him, Doronil bent to examine the wound. "The skin has been broken by some blunt, heavy object—" "Yes, that seems a fairly accurate deduction," Legolas interrupted. Doronil took a cloth from his assistant and dipped it in a shallow bowl of potent-smelling liquid before wiping it gently along the cut. Legolas breathed sharply as the solution, intended to prevent infection, stung the flesh. "It has almost ceased to bleed, but I shall dress it all the same."

Eluial, who had been absently running her fingers through her son's sticky hair, withdrew them suddenly and made a face. "As soon as you are finished here, you are going straight to the bath, ûlum'u!"
The second apprentice, he who had experienced such respiratory problems, handed his master a box full of bandages, dressings and soft pads. Doronil selected one, placed it over the wound and taped it down with swift, expert hands. "I cannot bandage it, or cast the fracture, you know," he explained. "Your lungs need freedom to allow you to breathe."

He turned away and washed and dried his hands before turning back to examine the now-clean skin. "It was the same blow that cracked your rib, wasn't it?"
The injured Elf nodded, wincing as the healer's confident fingers passed over his chest, feeling the shape of the bones beneath.
"It is snapped, certainly, but it seems to be a clean break...you have been fortunate. Breathe in a little, please."
With one swift movement, the two ends of bone had been brought back together and Doronil ran his hand along the rib, satisfied.

"Complete rest for two weeks and reduced exertion for another, and you should be well on your way to recovery," he informed Legolas, who grimaced. "Come, Doronil, you know it cannot take that long to heal—I am perfectly well in all other respects, I shall be much more contented if I am allowed to return to my duties...and you know that a happy patient is a healthy patient!"
Eluial's silvery laughter echoed off the bare stone walls. "You are incorrigible, iôn! No, you shall remain here with me and all the paperwork that is lying in your study...and, if you still find yourself suffering from tedium, you could begin on the corresponding mountain in your father's library!"
"Remind me once again why we pay salaries to several score of clerks and secretaries," Legolas demanded, with a smile that belied his words. "Very well, Mother, I will sit with you and your ladies, winding wool and listening to all the gossip of the court."
"Take care, ellon," Doronil said, eyes glinting. "I remember another rash young Elf who made a similar promise in jest, but was taken at his word by your mother and made to fulfil it!"

At this point Annúmír, who seemed to have appointed himself guardian of the door, poked his dark head around it and glanced around the main chamber. It held no visible occupants since Culedhel had been put in a screened off bed and was watched by a tall young apprentice, who had been given strict instructions to ensure the poisoned and currently incoherent Elf remained exactly where he was and was not allowed to indulge the tendency he had developed to wander. The queen caught sight of her foster son and called to him, and he hurried across to the small room where they all stood grouped around Legolas, casting concerned glances back at the door as he did so.

"How are you feeling?" Annúmír inquired. "Much the same as I was when you insisted upon bringing me here, save that now I smell slightly better," Legolas answered teasingly.
"Good, for an amiable hurricane just arrived in the outer room and demanded to see you, and I was not sure—"
Legolas grinned. "I believe there are enough of us here to cope with the storm: tell Glînwë that he may come in."

Translations

Dagor Nuin Yrn — Battle under trees
gwador nín — my brother
mellyn nín — my friends
ellon (ellyn) — young male Elf (Elves)
tarlanc'u — stiff necked one
muin'u — dear one
meleth — love
ûlum'u — stinking one
iôn — son

A/N: yes, it's been a very long time—again. But I can explain, really I can! This chapter has got to have had the most far-flung writing in my history of fanfiction...lots was written at home, some was written in comfy study last June, some was written sitting on a big rock looking out to sea at the Bloody Bridge, some was written in Belfast City Airport, some at 30,000 feet, some at the US Embassy in London, some at Heathrow, some more at 30,000 feet, some in silent study, some while driving along, some while lying in the garden...hmm, maybe that explains the disjointedness of the writing!

I know veyr little about First Aid, despite having taken a course in it, so the medical details are necessarily vague and probably incorrect ) I am working from the hypothesis that Elves heal approximately twice as quickly as humans, hence Legolas' three (rather than six) week convalescence period.

Six chapters, with this being by far the longest yet—and this thing was only meant to be ten at most. Erm. Maybe not. I'm probably going to be still writing this when I'm retired!

Celeb & Tin, the reviewy people ;) —see, it wasn't quite over for Legolas and the spiders...I begin to see why you enjoy Elf damage, but I'm not very good at it so far—maybe I need more practice grin I'm glad that you enjoyed it.