A lavender dawn breaks on the third day of Legolas' rest, as calm as the headwaters of the Bruinen bubbling down from the snowmelt of the mountains. Still, quiet, and sedate; such a drastic turn from the bitter orange morns Aragorn had borne silent witness to in the woods. The elf has been sleeping for nearly two days, both fëa and hröa clearly in dire need of the rest.
The door opens with a creak as Elrond enters. He winces at the sharp noise, spotting his youngest son inside. Estel jerks awake, head lifting abruptly from where it had been resting in his arms on the bed. His dark curls are mussed and though he runs a hand through them, it does little to quell their unkemptness.
"Good morning, Estel. I thought I told you to sleep in your own bed last night." The elflord scolds gently, setting the food tray down on the table.
"I tried but I heard him last night from my room. I couldn't just leave him." The young man's voice is rough with sleep as he glances down at his friend. Legolas' hair is freshly braided to one side, the end bound with a gold clasp that Elrond had noticed was missing from his own jewellery box last month. Well, it looks better nestled in those pale strands than it ever did in his own dark ones anyway.
"Come have some breakfast before Legolas eats it all." Elrond beckons with a wink though he knows the wood-elf has been eating very little in the past few days. Some strawberries, a few dry biscuits, the occasional handful of snap peas - not nearly enough for an elven archer.
"Is this cairbas?" Estel asks, pointing to the tray. On it lies a stack of steaming oblong bread rolls, each hollowed out and filled with an egg and soft cheese.
His foster father nods with a smile, placing one on a plate and handing it to him. "Yes indeed it is. I was up very early this morning kneading the dough."
The look of shock on his son's face makes the elf raise a questioning eyebrow. A bit of runny egg drips down the man's chin, "You made this? Rhoben actually let you into the kitchen?"
Elrond tries very hard not to take offence at that statement, "Believe it or not, my child, once upon a time I did cook for myself each and every day."
Estel eats three pieces of cairbas (and to think Elrond hadn't believed Glorfindel when the warrior warned him men's stomachs were endless) before intending to return to his vigil beside Legolas' bed. As he pushes back from the table, a sudden harsh inhale of breath escapes from his lungs. It rapidly descends into a bout of violent coughing and Elrond abruptly realises that what he thought was merely a raspy morning voice is not in fact, that.
"Estel, are you alright?"
"I am fine. It is a simple tickle of the throat, nothing more." But his response is quickly followed by another coughing spell and he sinks heavily back into the chair. Elrond is beside him in a moment, a hand on the young man's forehead before moving to tilt his chin from side to side.
The elflord gives a quiet hum of concern, "Traipsing through the woods has not done you any favours."
Despite the rasp in his throat, Estel is firm. "I had to forgo my own needs to care for him. His condition was more dire."
"But now, my son, you are home and Legolas has been cared for. So please, let us care for you."
His son's grey eyes plead with him, wanting to stay by his best friend's side, but Elrond knows this must be taken care of immediately. "I'm sorry young one, but rest is calling you."
As the lord pulls him to his feet, the man hisses sharply. "Are you injured? Where?"
"Only my shoulder, ada. It is merely sore from carrying Legolas through the wood."
"Nevertheless, I would like to examine it and wrap it. Well, it seems it is fortuitous that you will be spending much time laying in bed - it will allow your muscles to heal."
The illness worsens almost unnaturally quickly and by the afternoon, Estel is limp in bed as even the strength to cough leaves him. Elrond passes off responsibility for Legolas onto the twins, instead turning his attention wholly on his youngest child.
Having lived so long in the presence of elves who are nearly immune to sickness, the man's own immune system has weakened. It is uncommon he engages with the company of men and spending nearly two weeks in Sleekhollow had exposed him to the remnants of winter illness. The following four weary days spent in the damp wood had all but sealed the letter.
Breaths pulled in are weak and rasping, punctuated only by the seizing of lungs as the man tries to cough. It is dreadful to see and Elrond can only imagine how miserable it must be to experience. He brews tisane after tisane, mixing feverfew and athelas alongside honey and camomile. Anything he thinks might make his son rest even the slightest bit better. The elflord could lie and say that he is not fearful but taking one look at Estel's face would betray him. Mannish illnesses are not his expertise and although he had cared for Estel through some childhood sickness, none had held him in such a grip as this. The lungs are a delicate thing. They do not power the body in the same way as the heart and yet without them there is not much hope. A matching set, lungs and heart. One living in the beats between moments, thundering with passion and life, and the other living slower but no less vital for its leisure.
When Estel wakes next, it is clear that fever holds him firm in its clutches. The glow of Ithil casts the room in a cold wash and the man shivers despite the flame of his skin.
"Elendil, forgive me. I have failed you." He whispers to Elrond, as though the man of old and the elf are the same. A trembling hand reaches for Elrond's cheek. The elf cups his own over it, unwilling to shatter this moment. Whatever Estel thinks he has done to shame his ancestors does not need to be further aggravated by his sure embarrassment at mistaking his foster father for Elendil. Eventually, Dúnedain strength gives out and the hand drops back to the bed. The ill man is still whispering hoarse apologies to the elf-friend of the past as though repetition would make his penance stronger.
Slumber creeps in slowly, turning his words to nothing. But the fragile peace does not tarry for long before breaking out as terror.
He thrashes in his bed and cries out names, those long dead and those alive within these halls intertwined. Elrond summons Elrohir and together with all of their strength, manage to hold the man long enough for him to inhale sleeping vapours. As tension eases out of sore muscles, Elrond sings a continuous, neverending verse. Elrohir wisely does not mention the tears in his father's eyes.
An elven-maid there was of old,
A shining star by day:
Her mantle white was hemmed with gold,
Her shoes of silver-grey.
Estel abruptly goes alarmingly limp and two sets of distraught hands press against his throat and wrist.
A star was bound upon her brows,
A light was on her hair
As sun upon the golden boughs
In Lórien the fair.
A heart still beats, lungs still breathe, and two elves heave a great sigh. Elrohir knows the song of which Elrond sings, he has heard it many a time. As he looks to the elf besides him, he calls to mind a verse of it - one he has always thought of his father's, strong and wise.
Of old Amroth was an Elven-king,
A lord of tree and glen,
When golden were the boughs of spring
In fair Lothlórien.
He can only hope his younger brother will stay with them in this world so the next does not hold true for the elf:
But from the West has come no word,
And on the Hither Shore
No tidings Elven-folk have heard
Of Amroth evermore.
Watching his father brush the matted curls back from Estel's face, he is suddenly struck by a question, one he had not expected he would ever have the courage to ask. "Ada, why did you bring Legolas to his chamber and not the healing wing?"
It is rare that Elrohir has seen his father speechless. There was a running joke amongst the household members that Elrond had words for everything (and most times, he had far too many). But here, discussing a topic so embedded in his heart, it seems the older elf could not find those which he wanted, the ones that could make sense of this emotion.
"I thought… that if the worst were to happen, Legolas would be more comfortable in his own bed. And it would give Estel space to grieve and come to terms privately, amongst his family alone and not prying eyes and whispering voices. To lose Legolas would be to lose Estel too and I thought that maybe… maybe it would make his passing kinder. For both of them."
Cairbas (Sindarin for boatbread) is based on Adjaruli khachapuri, a traditional Georgian dish. There are many types but this one is made of leavened bread filled with melted cheese and a runny egg. Adjaruli khachapuri is traditionally boat-shaped and is said to represent a boat, the sea, and the sun. I thought this variation would be a good choice given how elves cherish the sea and sky so highly (and it's sooooo delicious!)