Thank you to everyone who's read and reviewed. As always, it is much appreciated. We've come to the last chapter, and the end of this latest installment. Much love to you all!

-Footprints in the Snow


Lanyarion would classify days like this under a special list of days he would rather never remember. Days he'd like to forget as soon as they ended. It wasn't even the physical exhaustion that gave these kinds of days their weight, for he was well-used to being tired from his work. It was the emotional toil, inherent in his job as a healer, that gave these days their due loathing.

When the Great Horn first rang, he followed age-old protocols to the letter. As a senior healer, he assigned the elves under his charge to prepare for mass casualties. A strict triage protocol immediately went into effect, and they gathered beds and supplies to set up an outer treatment area outside of the main chamber. When wounded came in, they would be directed either to the hallway for minor injuries, or to the main chamber for the more serious.

As casualties began rolling in, Lanyarion was fully immersed in his work. He would spare only moments of his attention to ensuring that his team was working efficiently, and he was pleased to note that all was going smoothly. Most of the serious wounds were taken care of quickly, only a handful needing his expert care.

Until the Elvenking was brought in.

There was an added pressure upon Lanyarion, knowing that he held the fate of the entire kingdom in his very hands with the treatment of their king. Thankfully, it only took a few harrowing minutes to learn that Thranduil's wounds were non-life-threatening. He would recover, and quickly, to lead the people once more.

He'd seen Thallion and Legolas briefly, reassured those two members of the beloved royal family were well. Reports came through about Calaeron's safety, although he'd been informed by the Elvenking himself that the eldest prince needed care.

When Calaeron entered the chambers a few hours later, finally accepting treatment for his wounds—which were ghastly, but also not serious—Lanyarion breathed a sigh of relief.

"Thallion is wounded," Calaeron said, bursting the small bubble that rested in his chest. Of course, the second prince was wounded. How could he not be? Being the magnet for trouble that he was, Lanyarion expected nothing less of Thallion. "He should be coming to see you soon."

So, Lanyarion waited. And waited. More time passed, and an uneasiness rose in his gut. If Calaeron had mentioned his brother's wound, then it was more serious than a simple scratch. But the fact that the reluctant prince hadn't come in yet worried him. While Thallion was stubborn, he was smart and experienced enough to understand when he needed help. Far from the irresponsible fool Lanyarion liked to call him in his most irritable moods.

Calaeron left to catch a few hours of sleep in his chambers, promising to return and check on the wounded before getting back to his duties as regent. Night had long since fallen, and the healing chambers were finally still and quiet.

Until they weren't.

It was near midnight when two ellons arrived, dragging the motionless figure of the kingdom's second prince between them. Hrávo looked up, meeting Lanyarion's gaze, and the healer couldn't hold back his fear. It had been many years since Thallion had been brought to him in such a state, and he was unsure how much longer he could stand to see his friends so damaged.

"Over here," he directed, slipping into his professional mask and directing them to an empty bed close to where the king rested. As soon as they were alongside the cot, Lanyarion stepped in and helped them heave the heavy prince onto the surface.

Blood dripped sluggishly from somewhere on Thallion's side, his hands sliding against the warm crimson as he removed the wounded elf's leathers. Hrávo helped, trembling slightly when his hands quickly became saturated in his friend's blood.

"I tended the wound hours ago," Hrávo admitted, his voice shaking in shame. "I should have sought him earlier. He clearly didn't have the strength to get himself here when he needed to."

"He's here now," Lanyarion said, swiftly cutting through the ruined fabric of the tunic to access the wound. It was so covered in blood that, at first, the healer couldn't see enough of it to gauge the severity. An assistant pushed a wet cloth into his hands, and he toweled away some of the crimson to reveal the gash.

It was nasty, that much was obvious. The blade, which had merely grazed his side, had been sharp enough to create an almost-surgical cut directly between two of the prince's ribs. While it would have hurt terribly, it hadn't initially been a very serious wound. It had bled, but Thallion could have possibly continued thusly for several hours without a care.

But Lanyarion saw that the wound had torn deeply, likely separating with all of his movement afterward. If Thallion had taken it easy, he would have been fine. As it stood, however, he'd lost a dangerous amount of blood. If it were anyone but Thallion, Lanyarion would have declared it a fatal wound and summoned next of kin upon sight.

But Thallion was Avarin, and his people were physiologically more resilient than their Sindarin and Silvan counterparts. It was that fact alone which had probably sustained Thallion.

The healer set to work carefully stitching the ragged tears deep within the wound, feeling more emotional about the task than he would normally allow himself. Lanyarion had been working non-stop since well before the Horn was blown, and his emotional reserves were long since depleted. Tears even threatened at the corners of his eyes, causing him to release a frustrated huff at himself. I'm being ridiculous, he chastised. I'm a senior healer, not some teary-eyed apprentice!

Hrávo said nothing, but he offered a steadying hand against Lanyarion's shoulder. The healer had more contact with the commander in recent years than he had in his entire tenure in the healing chambers, and it was that familiarity alone that allowed him to accept Hrávo's comfort.

Once he'd finished the delicate work of piecing together the inner damage, Lanyarion took another deep breath and set to the daunting task of cleaning the ragged flesh surrounding it. Unfortunately, the wound had been open to the air far too long and was past the window of time when it could be fully closed. Were it not for the risk of further bleeding, Lanyarion would have packed it with healing salves and left it completely open to heal on its own. But the risk of Thallion bleeding out was higher than the risk of illness due to the filth of an orc's blade and many hours of exposure. He would have to hope the elf's body could fight off any impending sickness long enough to replenish some of his blood supply.

Lanyarion used a bowl of scented water, which one of his assistants had refilled at least thrice, to clean Thallion's blood from his hands. He offered it to Hrávo, who did the same with a nod of thanks. The engineer who had helped bring the prince to the chambers had long since been dismissed, but Lanyarion vowed that the ellon would be duly thanked for his assistance.

The bulk of his work was done, but Lanyarion continued to clean his friend's hands, neck, and face. It was tedious work, small tasks that kept his hands busy so that his mind could quiet. Hrávo said nothing, simply dragging a chair beside Thallion's bed and dropping into it to keep watch.

Once much of the grime was cleaned, the horrid pallor of Thallion's face became more apparent. Especially where it contrasted with his impossibly black hair. Some braids had come loose, so Lanyarion found a comb and detangled what he could, setting aside the beads and ties that were dislodged. The re-plaiting would be left either to a member of the royal family, or to Thallion himself once he was able. Lanyarion had learned early on to respect the symbolism of Avarin warrior braids, and what they meant to the prince.

It was one of many features that endeared Thallion to those who knew him well. It added to the air of mystery surrounding the "wild" prince.

When he was finished, he ordered his healers to re-situate the Elvenking to a bed nearer to his son—and to ensure there was room for the rest of the royals once they finally came to the healers for respite.

This Valar-cursed family was going to be the death of him, but he wouldn't trade them for anything else in Arda.


Night fell in the courtyard, and Legolas stifled a yawn. Four hours had passed atop the wall, but no movement interrupted the stillness of the evening. All was well, and the keep was still secure. The three novice warriors completed their four-hour watch when a fresh squad of elves arrived and told them they were to report to the healing chambers for treatment.

And then rest.

"Ai, I could sleep all night!" Mitsion didn't bother to cover the yawn that split his dirty face, earning a fond chuckle from Fandir and a shake of the head from Legolas. Their feet hurt from the tense shift atop the wall, where they had hardly dared to move for fear of missing enemy shapes in the dark. But their luck held and no orcs disturbed the silence.

Legolas felt an ache deep in his lower back, and his hands burned beneath Thallion's bandage. The promise of rest paled next to the realization that he might finally get the chance to see his father. Despite Calaeron's earlier faith in their Adar's resilience, he would feel no relief until he could see for himself.

"I'm sure the Elvenking is well, Legolas."

Fandir's voice was quiet beside him, a hint of uncertainty filling the deeper timbre—they still weren't quite sure of where they stood, but were gaining a new respect for each other. How the other boy knew what thoughts plagued Legolas, he couldn't be certain.

"Have you heard from your family?"

Legolas realized with a start that he knew nothing of Fandir's family, nor whether he had other siblings in the kingdom. He vowed from that moment to learn more about Fandir.

"I saw my sister in the courtyard," Fandir said. "She's with the corps of engineers working on the wall. I heard my father was somewhere near the armory when the horn was blown—he's a sword-smith. He made Cullass' sword, actually."

"Is he well?"

Legolas was afraid to ask.

"I didn't see him in the healing chambers, so I must assume that he and my Naneth are safe," Fandir said, though his voice was thick with worry. Legolas couldn't imagine not knowing the fate of his loved ones. He, at least, knew that his family were all alive.

"As soon as we're released, go see to your family," Legolas said, making sure to lace his tone with a hint of authority. He wanted it to be made clear that their well-being was a priority. They were, after all, his people—and he, their prince. Legolas had a duty to the people to ensure their safety.

"Thank you."

They said nothing else before they reached the healing chambers for the third time that day. The hallways outside the chambers had been cleared of beds, and much of the inner space was emptied. Most of the elves within were sleeping. Alarcien, Legolas noted, was accompanied by both her parents. He couldn't stop the smile at the sight of her cuddled against her mother on the bed, her Ada sitting guard beside the two elleths.

The three were soon ushered onto beds, being prodded by apprentice healers. Fandir was released first, having suffered little more than bruises during the ordeal. He bid both Legolas and Mitsion farewell, rushing out of the chambers—likely to find his family. Legolas hoped for the best, sending a short prayer to the Valar in his sake.

Mitsion, too, was declared well and allowed to leave. He was reluctant to part from Legolas, and it took more than a handful of words to convince him to check on his own family. Legolas knew both of Mitsion's parents would be worried sick, and it was finally enough to encourage the boy to go.

Legolas, however, had to wait for a healer to check his fingers. The raw, bleeding welts on his palms from his daggers were cleaned and dressed efficiently, but the apprentice healer—Fêrwen—was more concerned about the thin slices along his fingers. They burned from her examination, and he dreaded further prodding.

When Lanyarion approached his bed not ten minutes later, Legolas forgot his irritation. He could ask the healer about his Ada! If anyone would be honest with him, it was the surly healer. Not only was he a senior in the wards, but he was chiefly responsible for the medical care of the entire royal family—and he often pretended to dislike the duty, disguising his deep care for the royals behind a gruff exterior. He was rather fond of them.

Most of the time.

"I see you are just as intent on creating as much work for me as the rest of your family, Legolas," he said, taking both Legolas' hands in his rough palms. Despite the teasing tone of his voice, Legolas watched the genuine concern fill the tetchy healer's eyes. He was exceedingly gentle as he examined the damaged fingers, tending them carefully and applying a paste which burned Legolas' nostrils. "You did a number on these fingers."

"Will they heal?" He asked, feeling a sudden swooping concern in his gut. What if he'd damaged them so much, he wouldn't be able to use his bow? What good was an archer without his hands?

"Do not fret," Lanyarion's voice softened, his eyes crinkling slightly with a half-smile that suited his face quite well. "Your fingers will develop much stronger calluses over time, which should prevent such deep wounds in the future. As long as you are less foolish than your brothers, you shall be fine."

"Are they okay?"

The question blurted out, but he wouldn't take it back now that it was in the open. Both his older brothers had been wounded, so he had a reason to be worried about them. Along with his father, the entire royal family had bled for their kingdom that day.

"They are all well, Legolas," Lanyarion assured, causing Legolas to deflate with relief. "Calaeron will need time to regrow that mane of his, and he has a few ribs to care for, but he is otherwise well. Your father took a blow to the chest, but is too stubborn to slow for long—a trait I believe he shares in generous doses with his tenacious offspring. He had some blood loss, which will keep him docile for a day or two, but he will be just fine in a few weeks."

"And Thall?" He asked, not content with the lack of information on the third member of his family. "Did he come to see you?"

Something passed over the healer's face, for but an instant, before it fled and was replaced by his usual irritation.

"That idiot will have a lot to answer for once he wakes, I assure you."

"What happened?"

Thallion must have been worse off than he'd let show, especially if Lanyarion looked so angry. The healer's anger usually only rose when something was serious.

"He collapsed from blood loss before he could make it to the wards," he explained, sending worry rippling through Legolas. But Lanyarion just shook his head, looking harried—and more than a little fond. "He was brought in by Commander Hrávo. I tended his wound and stopped the bleeding. He will be well once he recovers from the lost volume."

It had been serious enough to worry Lanyarion, who considered Thallion a friend after so many years of caring for him—with increasing frequency, due to the turbulent state of their kingdom. The short-tempered elf cared very deeply for the royal family, which he'd frequently proved. It was almost amusing to imagine what kind of scolding Thallion would face once he woke, and that was nearly enough to stop most of Legolas' worrying.

"Can I see them?"

Legolas didn't have to specify, and Lanyarion didn't need to answer. He stood, waiting for the youngest prince to follow, and led him to a secluded corner of the chambers. One small section was separated with heavy privacy screens, no doubt shielding the wounded royals from the rest of the languishing warriors and wounded civilians. Lanyarion shifted one screen aside, creating a slender space for which Legolas could enter.

On the other side were four beds, two of which were unoccupied. Calaeron had left to tend to further duties as regent, but might return to check on his father and brothers. The third and fourth beds held the two elves Legolas was most concerned about.

Thallion slept, eyes closed and face alarmingly pale, but otherwise looked well. A blanket was pulled up to his chest and Hrávo sat, dozing lightly, in a chair next to his bed. He presumedly hadn't left since bringing the prince to the healers, deciding merely to rest there instead of finding his own bed.

In the fourth bed was the Elvenking, and he looked as elegant and kingly as any wounded elf could. He was propped up on the mattress with several fine pillows, probably brought by well-meaning valets and forced upon the king. He wore a light set of robes, less ornate than his daily wear but clearly not typical bedclothes worn in the healing chambers. There was a slight thickness under the material on his chest—the bandages Legolas assumed covered his wounds.

He was even awake, to Legolas' lasting relief.

"I hear I owe you gratitude—along with a lecture—according to your currently unconscious brother." There was something in Thranduil's voice that Legolas couldn't place, though he was unsure he wanted to. While it was somewhat breathy and lacking its usual heartiness, he still sounded like the Ada Legolas knew. "Calaeron informed me of your deeds, ion nin. You saved your brother's life."

"I did only what I felt I must."

Thranduil patted a space on the bed next to him, and Legolas couldn't resist the invitation—both to soothe his weary, aching body and to draw comfort from his father. He was still having trouble shaking the fear that came from the utterance of four much-detested words, the king has fallen. It seeped into his bones and leached at his energy, and Legolas felt the sudden urge to curl against his father and sleep.

"It is the mark of a wise leader, tithen las, to understand the difference between duty and responsibility," Thranduil said, sliding a hand over Legolas' back and gripping his filthy leathers. Whether he was comforting, restraining, or disciplining—Legolas knew not. His tone switched back and forth, sounding equal parts reprimanding and proud. "You disobeyed the order of a superior."

"Yes, aran nin."

Legolas could not lie, nor did he wish to. He'd known, from the moment he left the safety of the wall, that he was being insubordinate. But when the cost was the life of his beloved brother, and the lives of his fellow warriors who were tarrying without relief, Legolas could not apologize. Would not, in fact.

Perhaps Thranduil sensed his defiance, for his ice-blue eyes darted toward the unmoving form of the yet to wake Thallion. A momentary flash of fear entered that otherworldly gaze for such a brief instant that Legolas would have missed it were he not staring so insolently into their depths. Thranduil, for all he was reputed to be cold and unfeeling, could have lost two more sons this day.

Was the line of Oropher so destined to be snuffed out of existence?

"You are ever your mother's child," Thranduil said, more to himself than to Legolas. It stirred something in his chest that felt like a cross between pain and pride. Despite the gravity of their conversation, and the definite chastisement bestowed upon the youngest prince, there was a contentment in their conversation. A kind of careful reintroduction of souls, as though one had returned from a task of some great peril to be greeted once more—which was not far off base, in this instance.

Thranduil again patted the space beside him, his fingers brushing the knee of Legolas' breeches, and he smiled at the gesture. It didn't take long to situate himself on the bed, laying lengthwise beside his Ada, and he slipped into much-needed sleep. The loving fingers sliding through his hair were merely a bonus.


Legolas came back to awareness slowly, first noticing rumbling sounds beneath his face. His cheek, which was pressed against something soft, twitched against the interruption. Could an elf be spared no peace in such early hours?

"Apologies, penneth," someone said, chuckling and brushing comfortingly through his mussed hair. He hadn't realized he'd spoken his disgruntled words out loud. Consciousness returned with a flood of embarrassment, which he responded to by tucking his face against the warm surface he was lying on—his Ada's chest, he realized.

Curse the Valar, was he always destined to look like a child?

He opened his eyes, suddenly quite fascinated by the ornate stitching on the Elvenking's robes. Sensing no escape, he raised his head and met the cool blue gaze of his father.

"Hello, my impish little wood-elf," Thranduil said, smiling in amusement at his youngest child. Legolas noted that his Ada looked much better than last he'd seen him, however long ago he had fallen asleep, and color was returned to his noble face. Lanyarion was likely not far off in his prediction that the Elvenking would not convalesce for long.

"Ada," Legolas greeted, pressing the back of his hand against gritty eyes and yawning openly as he looked about the space.

Beside his father's bed, Calaeron was sitting on the edge of an empty cot—meant for the crown prince, but obviously unused. Hrávo still rested in the chair beside another, awake but looking in need of a real bed, beside where Thallion was stretched out on the soft surface.

Thallion, Legolas noted, still looked quite unwell. He was pale in the face, his lips nearly bloodless and pursed in noticeable pain. But his eyes, while somewhat glazed, were open and focused on Thranduil. And Legolas.

Seeing his entire family in one place filled Legolas with relief, which he was loath to hide in such close company. The only presence not of royal blood was Hrávo, and Legolas knew the elf commander was next-to-kin anyway, so it mattered not.

"You're awake," Legolas said to his older brother, not caring that he was so clearly stating the obvious. He carefully lifted himself off his Ada's chest, smiling at the squeeze of his father's hand on his arm as he rose, and he approached Thallion's bedside. "How are you?"

Wanting to be closer, he leaned against the edge of the bed next to Thallion's unwounded left side. He was discouraged by the fatigue he could read on Thallion's pale face, but his grey eyes were as bright as ever.

"I will recover, tithen las," he said, his voice weak and difficult to hear even in close quarters. He raised one pale hand, which Legolas immediately claimed, and squeezed with more strength than he looked capable. "I am more pleased to see you rested."

"It was an order," he blurted out, blushing when Calaeron laughed feet away.

Thallion glanced over to their older brother, summoning him with his other hand. When Calaeron approached, leaning over Legolas' shoulder, there was something foreign—and deeply archaic—in Thallion's gaze. Hrávo reached for an object on the floor and handed it to Calaeron almost reverently.

It was Thallion's damaged leathers, cut through the side and doused in his blood.

Hrávo carefully removed a thin cord, one of the leather ties that Legolas had helped his brother with so many hours ago, and handed it to Calaeron with a ritualistic flourish.

"I have not the strength to do this the way I would like," Thallion said, looking to Hrávo for help and nodding gratefully when the other elf gently helped him sit up enough to tuck an extra pillow behind him. Even that movement seemed to tire him, and they had to wait for Thallion to recover his breath. "It should not wait. So, our brother has agreed to do the honor."

Without preamble, Calaeron reached forward and separated a section of Legolas' tangled hair and worked his fingers through it to detangle the locks. Then, he began to braid the hair so that it matched a braid on the opposite side of his head—his first, given to him by Thallion after his perilous journey to Imladris. It was an Avarin tradition, deeply ingrained in their ancient culture, to mark great milestones in an elf's life with a braid. While Thallion was adopted by the royal family of Eryn Galen, he would forever carry on the traditions of his birthright.

Even, it seemed, to share them with those he most cherished.

"You will face many perils in your life as a warrior," Thallion said, breathing shallowly to escape a stitch of pain from his wound. "You defended your home, your family, and your warriors. In doing so, you took your first life in the service of your duties."

His eyes burned, thinking of the face of that foremost orc. As filthy and deplorable as those creatures were, it was still a life ended by his hand.

"It is a mark you will carry with you." Thallion's eyes took on a far-away look, and Legolas wondered what face swam before his grey gaze. "It is a responsibility you must wear, which you will take with you through all battles in life."

Calaeron reached the end of the braid, winding the borrowed tie around it and securing it with a sturdy knot. Thallion bestowed their elder brother with a grateful look, firmly squeezing Legolas' hand—he hadn't relinquished his grip through the small ceremony.

"Thank you, muindor," Legolas said.

Thallion looked on the verge of falling back into sleep, but he smiled warmly and held fast to Legolas' hand. Then, with a flash of humor in his eyes, he looked to Hrávo—at the leathers the elf commander still held.

"I'm afraid my armor has seen its last," Thallion laughed, and Hrávo grimaced at the ruined material in his hands. Legolas heard Thranduil snort derisively from his position on the bed beside Thallion's.

They sounded like nothing but a family, instead of royals with their very kingdom pressing on their shoulders. Like they could stay there, basking in each other's company, for an age—forever, even.

"Perhaps I could help?" Legolas asked, gesturing for the material and receiving a few strange looks in return. Hrávo handed it over.

Legolas knew just the person.


"I told you I hoped you would visit more often," Lumornel said, looking over the macabre piece of apparel with calculating eyes. She turned it, manipulating the split so that Thallion's dried blood caught the light and reflected its grim color. "But I did not mean it so soon."

Legolas shifted his stance from foot to foot, a mirthful look dancing on his youthful face.

"Does that mean you cannot repair it?"

The look of scandalized challenge in her eyes said all he needed to hear, and he took a seat beside the skilled elleth with eager hands ready for more work.

"Now that, I did not say."