hello everyone!
The last of my clean up posts, this fic - the first of a series now up in the air - will be it for me for at least some time. I felt compelled to post it though, given the complexities of our current times... there are conversations here that may be familiar to folks suffering the big questions, lately. I won't say much more about that, and I just hope the fic speaks for itself (none of my defensive Afterwords for once, lol).
Thanks to everyone who has ever supported my work. I wish you well in all your endeavors, creative or otherwise. Be well, be kind, and always, always keep writing and reading and creating and connecting, here or elsewhere :) 'Til the next post, whenever or wherever it will be!
01: The Last Letters
An injured messenger from the Woodland rides into Imladris. He is hoping for healing, but when things turn dire all he really wants is the comfort of friends. He is stuck instead with their father.
# # #
Rivendell, Before The Fellowship of the Ring
Even injured, the healer reflected as his sharp, critical eyes settled on the new arrival coming up toward his house, Thranduil's son knows how to keep a graceful seat.
It had become a familiar sight these last few years – the Woodland Prince in his role as his father's messenger, navigating the winding passes of Imladris and coming upon the cobbled entry toward the Main House.
Sometimes he arrived on foot and other times as now, on horseback. Sometimes he was in the company of a traveling party and other times as now, on his own. Always he was garbed in his simple, Silvan warrior's wares and yet at the same time – his royal lineage was unquestionable.
He had some of Oropher's fire and some of Thranduil's ice, the healer thought. The grandfather was all heat and the father was glacial. Oropher attacked, Thranduil defended. Oropher was unstoppable, Thranduil immovable. What was left of these two ravenous forces was their only heir, Legolas Greenleaf.
The healer narrowed his eyes. He is an unknown quantity.
They knew each other well enough. But in his visits to Imladris, Legolas Greenleaf would finish his messenger's duties and then be monopolized by the healer's three sons... And between Elladan, Elrohir and Estel, what time could the visiting prince possibly share with anyone else?
The horse he was riding did not belong to him. The mighty beast was from the Lord of Imladris' stables. This was anomalous but unsurprising – a runner from the border had ridden ahead to tell the healer of the situation.
"The Woodland Prince has arrived as is usual for this time of year, hir-nin Elrond," said the runner. "He is on his feet and alone. He is injured but functional, however the lieutenant saw it fit to insist he ride the rest of the way, and has instructed me to inform you aid may be required upon arrival..."
It was how the healer ended up on the steps of his house, waiting for the Woodland messenger to come.
Thranduilion arriving injured was a familiar sight too, unfortunately. The roads between their homes weren't just long and rife with natural dangers, there were increasingly unnatural dangers lately too.
As the Woodland Prince approached closer, he saw the healer and raised his hand up and placed it over his heart in deferential greeting to the master of the House. It was usually a bow, and thus a clue in how he was physically faring. The healer's eyebrow shot up pointedly, but for his part he returned the gesture with a low, welcoming bow befitting the arrival of a foreign prince.
Thranduilion steered his borrowed horse to a stop, and it heeded his commands easily. The Silvans had a good way with animals, but especially their Prince – the beast could have very well been his. An attendant received the reins, and the healer watched and let the new arrival dismount on his own; he wanted to observe his movements.
The Prince betrayed much. Stiff and protective of the chest, a slight sway at the landing, a measured walk... and upon close inspection, the healer found him pale and drawn, slightly breathless, with a sheen of sweat on his otherwise elegant brow.
"My Lord Elrond," he greeted formally, sounding mildly winded only, but it spoke volumes to Elrond's practiced, healer's ear.
"Prince Legolas," Elrond returned. He'd cared for this young elf many times by now and Legolas' regular visits made him a friend to Elrond's family, but they always fell on formal footing at the start of official arrivals.
"I bring word from Thranduil, Elvenking of the Woodland Realm," said the prince.
"Imladris is honored to receive it," said Elrond, "And Ernil-nin we welcome on his own merits. Our House is, as always, the prince's house."
Legolas exhaled a sigh and nodded in thanks. He glanced left, right, in movements that were brief and discreet. But Elrond knew precisely what – who – he was looking for. Legolas was almost assuredly seeking his friends. They all got along famously.
Too famously, Elrond thought wryly. Legolas did not give voice to his search for them though, and the healer let it be for now.
"Urgent business?" Elrond asked, as they started walking apace with each other toward the house.
"They all are lately, I'm afraid," Legolas said after a thoughtful pause.
That was 'no' enough to Elrond. Urgent business meant immediate calls for reinforcements, an emergency need for medical aid, or pertinent shared information with time sensitivities. They were both familiar with the triage of correspondence by now. If Legolas' message entailed none of these, then his personal wellbeing could be handled first.
Elrond discreetly led the way to the healing halls, and though Legolas was undoubtedly familiar with Rivendell's winding ways by now, he suffered to be led thus. In other times he would be led to Elrond's offices or council rooms first, for a debriefing.
They passed many elves along the way, who greeted both the Master of the House and his esteemed guest with bows and murmured greetings. Legolas was a magnet for the elven eye – striking for his fairness and reputed military prowess yes, but strange also, foreign. He had extraordinary, luminous features but he wore plain clothes and was almost always armed. He easily courted Noldorin curiosity.
But he was a thin presence beside Elrond as they walked today - slightly winded, clearly weary. The faster Elrond could wrest the elven prince away from prying eyes and onto a bed, the better.
They stopped at the foot of a set of stairs that led up to the healing halls. Beside him, Elrond saw Legolas look up at it with dark humor. His laughter was threadbare, but it crinkled the corners of his blue eyes and softened the frigid blue of them with flashes of light.
"Far be it for me... to criticize the finest home in Arda," he said, pausing for breath, "but surely – there is some flaw to situating... the healing halls... at such a height."
He planted one firm, determined hand against the railing and started the climb one heavy step at a time, just the same.
Elrond knew Legolas wouldn't make it to the top on his own, but humored the effort. He kept close by, and spoke soothingly while imparting healing energy to the other elf. "The entire House was constructed respecting the natural layout of the valley's crags and rocks. Beneath our constructed elven structures it is barely touched, allowing for natural movements of air, light, water..."
The wood-elf beside him gasped in pain and clutched his free hand over his heart, but kept going. So did Elrond.
"The result of course is that certain areas would be of different heights," the Lord of Imladris went on. "The healing halls are actually more accessible than most other spots of the House. Furthermore, it was chosen to be near fertile and well-lit land for the cultivation of herbs..."
Legolas faltered, and Elrond steadied him by the elbow. But he kept consciousness, prompting Elrond to ask for permission to hold him more invasively.
"If the prince allows...?"
Legolas, teeth clenched, grunted in displeasure but gave him a brief nod. Elrond took Legolas' arm and slung it over his shoulder. He kept hold of the prince at the wrist too, feeling his fast, fluttery pulse. They climbed together.
"You were..." Legolas gasped, "saying something... something about the light, my lord."
Elrond thought it was as good a distraction from pain and misery as any. "Yes. Healing herbs can be temperamental. Especially non-native plants we are trying to grow here for their medicinal properties. They need optimal conditions to flourish. Furthermore, up there, the environment is more isolated and controlled. We do not want the plants growing unfettered as an invasive species into the rest of the Valley."
"That is... sensible," Legolas agreed, beginning to slur. When he lost his footing, Elrond swiftly bore him up into his arms. He held Legolas close as he carried him up the rest of the flight of stairs, imparting more of his healing powers as they went.
Legolas remained stubbornly awake, and blearily clutched at his chest with one hand and at the clothes over Elrond's with the other. The healer did not yet know what the prince suffered, but he seemed stable – or functional, as the runner had forewarned - and Elrond would know more soon enough.
They were greeted at the healing halls with controlled urgency typical of the healers when someone so clearly unwell was brought in. They made way for their lord, but trailed after him with basic needs and ready to receive further instructions.
Elrond lowered Legolas to a bed in a particularly airy, well-lit room. This was a favored one for him and his sons, on the occasions any of them needed serious tending. It was conducive to healing for its openness, and the layout extended their patience for being cooped up while in recovery. It was the first time he had offered it to Legolas, he realized.
The Woodland Prince was awake but pale and looking about him dizzily, blinking for better awareness but unable to truly focus. His gaze kept darting about all the moving pieces in the room: Elrond who stood aside to wash his hands in a basin borne by an attendant; the one unlacing his soft boots; the healers divesting him of his clothes.
Elrond observed the state of Legolas' flitting awareness with a frown. But Legolas was not too far gone, yet. One of the attendants was collecting his personal effects, and the Woodland warrior's hand shot out and had a death grip on a cylinder of messages. At a nod from Elrond, the attendant let Legolas keep it but he scurried away with the rest of the items.
Elrond stepped forward and reached his clean hands about the side of the bewildered prince's neck. The pulse there thundered; a marked and unsettling departure from how the fluttery pulse in his wrist felt moments before.
"Legolas," he called authoritatively, demanding to be looked upon. The prince did not disappoint, and the darting gaze settled on the Master of the House. "You will speak now of what ails you."
Legolas took a few, steeling breaths – fast and shallow he tried to control them – and his eyes cleared and he nodded.
"A day or so...ago," he gasped, and the staccato speech was ill-timed, broken, "Warg-borne uruk-hai. One beast... it just. Barreled into... my horse and I. We fell. I dispatched them. But my horse... I had to... put him down. It could have been... worse, I thought. I was still... able to make my way here... on foot."
The unlacing of Legolas' undershirts revealed he had made attempts to tend himself; there were thick, supportive bandages about the chest. The healers cut at them decisively, and revealed minor healing scratches but deep bruising underneath.
"Nothing broken," Legolas said with a gasp at the release of the bindings, his hands drifting again toward his heart. Elrond clasped at his cold digits and pulled them gently aside. When he looked up at his patient, he saw awareness fade from the eyes, and the body go lax. Before Elrond could alarmingly call him back to wakefulness though, Legolas jerked and almost rather simply, returned. He gasped and winced in pain, but picked up where he left off as if he had been awake all along.
"It's all just bad bruising I think," he said breathily, "I took willow bark...for the... pain. Applied poultice... of wild mint. Drank some miruvor. Nothing else. Needed to be aware... alone on the road."
Elrond palpated the mottled chest gently, and found as reported that Legolas' bones did fare reasonably well after what he imagined to be a high-impact force from a warg on a fast, frontal attack. There was minor damage to the bone at the middle of the chest, nothing rest and immobility wouldn't heal. The blow was likely softened by a defensive maneuver; indeed, there was more bruising and defensive injury to be found at the arms and shoulders.
But there was nothing "just" or simple about bad bruising when it came to the chest. While it was true that the Woodland Prince was conscious and functional, Elrond was concerned about the irregularities in the pulse and the lapses toward unconsciousness. The breathing sounded inefficient too; he was working too hard and getting too little in return.
Elrond closed his eyes to examine his patient beyond the skin. He let his hands hover over the site of particularly bad bruising over the other elf's chest near the heart. He suspected it was the main culprit for Legolas' difficulties, and his otherworldly senses did find damage beneath, into the muscle. The heart stuttered, and Legolas gasped softly and jerked beneath him. The rhythm of his heartbeat changed again, but steered toward regularity.
Elrond emerged from the trance and looked down at the beleaguered prince. He was clearly uncomfortable, but being off his feet was giving him better coloring and responsiveness. His eyes were clearer, and his breathing was also improving. From what the healer could readily see, the condition was serious but not critical – yet.
Elrond ordered his attendants to fetch Legolas a mild tea and some salves to ease his pain. The heart, it was a tricky instrument. The healer knew he had to tread carefully. At this point, he preferred observation and conservativism, as long as Legolas was not in immediate danger.
"Have you been nauseous? Ill?" he inquired, as he examined the rest of the patient's body while waiting for the medicine.
The elven prince winced in memory. "Some. Infrequent, and bearable."
"Have you been losing consciousness?" Elrond asked.
Legolas frowned in thought. "I've been dizzied," he admitted. "The times of day...were hard to track. I misplaced some hours. I thought I was only weary. It's not impossible."
The cadence of his speaking was improving from his restful position too, Elrond noted, further encouraging his conservative approach. The healer hoped this trajectory would continue, and that there would be no need for drastic treatment. One of his healers approached him bearing the medicines he had asked for.
"You have a contusion to the heart," Elrond said to Legolas. "Bruising in the muscle. If there are damages worse and more immediate than that, such as rupture or bleeding, well..."
"I would be dead by now," Legolas said bluntly.
Elrond opened his palms up to concede, but did not word it. "But it is by no means anything to take lightly, ernil-nin. The pain, lightheadedness and breathlessness you are clearly well-aware of."
"Hard to miss, that..."
"But I want you to pay better attention to the beating of your heart," Elrond said. "I've already noted inconsistencies in the rhythm in this short span of time. It could already be healing, it could be worsening, it could very well be healing incorrectly, as happens sometimes. I do not yet have the information to understand your progression. As you can imagine, this limits the remedies I am comfortable giving to you without unintentionally exacerbating things. It steers me to a conservative rather than an aggressive approach while we observe. This means mild medicine, close monitoring and I am sorry to say – continuing discomfort for you for some time."
"I gladly defer to your expertise, my lord," Legolas said earnestly. He was blinking and wide-eyed though, dazed at the surprisingly serious state of his health. His expression made the already much younger elf look suddenly childlike, in spite of his years and breadth of experience. It compelled the healer to offer a balm of a different sort.
"Good," Elrond joked, "That is so much better an attitude than what I've come to expect of my own sons."
It had the desired effect, and Legolas not only smiled, he glanced longingly at the doors of his room and found the opening he apparently needed to inquire after his friends.
"And where are the rabble?"
Elrond barked out a surprised laugh. "I will help you sit straight so that you may drink the tea," he said and did so, before answering. "Elladan, Elrohir and Estel are hunting a pack of orc raiders spotted a days' ride out from here. They often find occasion to fight, as you know. I don't suppose your father has as difficult a time as I do keeping his warrior son in line?"
Legolas clutched at Elrond as he was pulled gently but efficiently to a sitting position. "I am completely beyond reproach, my lord," he lied boldly, as he looked up at Elrond with a weary, winsome grin. Elrond shook his head at the elven prince with fondness.
"At any rate," said Elrond, handing Legolas a cup of herbal tea and settling it in his cold hands before letting go, "They should be back in a couple of days. They know you come around this time of year and have been expecting you just before they set out. They will return soon. Until then, I'm afraid you only have me for company."
"I should be so honored hir-nin," said the other elf.
"Drink," Elrond ordered.
Legolas did as he was told, grimacing only slightly at the heat and taste, before returning the empty cup to a waiting attendant with a murmur of thanks.
"It is very mild," Elrond spoke, pausing occasionally as he maneuvered Legolas backward to listen to his chest on the front, and then forward to listen to his breathing from the back. "I did tell you we would be wary in our approach."
"I understand," Legolas said. He sighed in contentment though, as the medicine started to do its good work. The stiffness in his body eased, and he leaned against the headboard on the bed once Elrond was finished listening to him breathe.
"You might find more relief lying down," Elrond said, motioning for his patient to do so.
Legolas shook his head. "I would rather relay my father's messages to you first, my lord. Otherwise there would be no real rest to be had."
"Legolas, we are not even done settling you."
"Please," the other implored. "For my own peace."
Put that way, it was difficult to argue. Elrond could hardly force relaxation by giving the younger elf a draught that would slow the unstable heart. The only recourse to achieve rest was a mind at ease.
They all had jobs to do, and being his father's messenger was a difficult task the elven prince took very seriously. First of all, few could physically do it – the fighting and survival skills necessary to triumph over the perils of the road had to be singular. Secondly, the messenger had to have a certain degree of authority – he had to have access to high-level, confidential information, and be able to make binding decisions on behalf of the kingdom because messengers could hardly go back and forth in an exchange, given the difficulty of the journey. Finally, one also needed a certain diplomatic touch, and Legolas could call upon considerable charms when so inclined.
"Very well," Elrond said with an aggrieved sigh. He reached for pillows and put them behind Legolas to situate him more comfortably. The Lord of Imladris then dismissed the other healers, and asked them to close the doors for privacy in hearing potentially sensitive information. When he turned back to the elven prince, Legolas was alert and ready. The cylinder of messages he had clung so protectively to earlier, was now open on his lap.
"Give me the information in brief ernil-nin," Elrond instructed, "While I see to your hurts. Between us we should be able to determine what merits immediate attention and action. If there is none, all else can wait until we have you better sorted."
"My first order of business is to regretfully inform you that Eryn Galen will implement formal cessation of all regular correspondence between our realms, from this point forward," Legolas said, only slightly breathless now. Elrond knew his tea was working even if it was used to convey bad news. "This is not a request – it is a notice."
The active alliance between Imladris and Eryn Galen was one that Elrond and the White Council valued, and he did not believe he had offended Thranduil in any way for it to be ended without good reason. And so while disappointed, Elrond let Legolas continue before reacting.
"A resurgent Dol Guldur is becoming more and more of a menace," explained Legolas, wincing and shifting when Elrond started applying a salve on the bruises on his chest. "We have limited military resources and we choose to spend them on border defense. Furthermore, our realm continues to be pushed northwards, and secure paths from here to our stronghold are too variable. We can offer no guarantees of safety to your messenger. If we expected your Imladrian representative at fixed points of time and they did not arrive, we would be compelled to mount an ill-advised search and rescue we cannot afford. Best to cease the regular, scheduled correspondences altogether, to ease that burden."
"I understand, ernil," said Elrond gravely. He understood it, all too well – his wife, after all, had been abducted and tortured during travel. His sons were all out in the world too, hunting foes that never seemed to decrease. And he had tended this particular messenger prince too many times, as of late. The roads have become too perilous for regular exchange and that was simply the way of things now. That they have gone on as long as they have was credit to the skill and courage of messengers like Legolas, but a line had to be drawn somewhere. They were lucky they haven't lost someone.
Yet, slithered in Elrond's ear at the thought though, as he looked upon pale Legolas before him. Yet. Elrond has had too many years of conflict on this land not to have that menace on the back of his mind.
"Would it change things, if the messengers were sent in larger groups?" Elrond asked, even though he already knew the answer.
"Those are sometimes a larger draw to the enemy eye than a single soldier," Legolas answered nonetheless. "There are so many more places one can sneak into and go past alone than with others. Safety does not always come with numbers. We've discussed plenty of options, none of which were satisfactory. Aran-nin was insistent, and would not be swayed. From a military standpoint, I agree with him. I've given you the broad reasons why we came to the resolution, but I also bear documents that detail the quantitative enemy information that led us to the decision. I think you will come to the same conclusions."
"The explanation of the Prince and the Elvenking's wise decision is more than enough," Elrond said, "But those will be useful for our own intelligence gathering. Thank you."
Legolas took a deep breath and nodded. The breath made his heart skip a beat; Elrond felt it beneath his palm, still on the other elf's chest. He looked up at Legolas, who turned his head away to cough, but otherwise seemed not to give it any mind.
"Does that happen often?" Elrond asked.
"Hm?"
"I told you to pay better attention to your heart, Legolas."
Legolas' eyes narrowed in confusion, but he nodded absently in acceptance of the rebuke. Whether or not he meant it was another question, for he only continued with his messaging work. He was slightly more breathless this time.
"And so these... will be the last such letters...you will receive from Eryn Galen for a while, my lord," Legolas said, handing Elrond papers from the coated cylinder he had with him, all with Thranduil's stamp and seal.
Elrond accepted them with a grave nod, but lowered them to a table beside the bed in favor of focusing on tending his patient first. They both continued with their most immediate jobs in that way – Legolas as messenger, and Elrond as healer. His hands returned to press against Legolas' bruised chest, sharing healing energy as he went.
"I will need... to return home with... your written confirmation," said Legolas, "that all regular correspondence... will from this point forward, cease."
"It will be drawn up and ready before you depart along with any other replies these missives will inspire," Elrond said.
Legolas hummed in quiet relief at the healing energy coursing through his body at Elrond's touch. He sighed and smiled, continuing on.
"It must be noted though, that the Elvenking was referring only to regular correspondence. If you... have urgent and sporadic messages to the Woodland... they will of course still be received, and all appropriate courtesy and assistance... shall be extended to your representative."
"I gathered," said Elrond. "And the same courtesy of course extends to your people."
"Aran-nin also...proposes coded messaging... between our realms from here on out," Legolas said. "So that even if the lines... of communication are not secure – say if we exchanged irregular correspondence through birds, traders, traveling kin, lower ranked soldiers and so on – the message... would still be protected."
"I agree wholeheartedly," said Elrond.
Legolas took a deep breath, and his heart beneath Elrond's hand fluttered anew. His sharp blue gaze flickered too, and Elrond recognized the near-faint when he started to tilt. The healer put a steadying grip on the younger elf's arm.
"Legolas." He shook the arm slightly, "Legolas," he hissed.
The other elf blinked at him, and stared in confusion until he came to some understanding of what had just transpired. "I... apologize." His hand drifted back up to rub against his sore chest. One of Elrond's hands was still there and Legolas' palm fell upon it. He shyly lowered his hand away from the healer's and averted his gaze.
Elrond gave him a worried look. "I must admit young prince, this is not indicative of the improvement I was hoping to see."
"I think I am just weary from the road," Legolas said tentatively.
"Still painful?"
"Nothing I cannot bear," he said. He attempted to jest: "If things are looking worse though, we'd best get on with the rest of the messages then."
Elrond was unamused. "Rest is the only thing I agree with on that statement, ernil. Rest."
"Just one last thing, my lord," Legolas said. "One last thing. May I bother you for ink and paper? The key to the code... aran-nin proposes for future correspondence is one I must write... from memory. For security purposes, we agreed I should not... travel with it. Once safely in your hands, you will be one of a handful of elves... to know it. He recommends you limit its dissemination and destroy or secret it away once you are well-versed in it."
"I will share it only with my sons and most senior ministers," said Elrond as he finished with the salve on the younger elf's chest. He pulled a blanket over Legolas and backed away. "But you really should not exert yourself just now."
"Sitting quietly with ink and paper... is hardly the thing to make my heart skip a beat, is it?" asked the prince with a teasing smile. "Come now, my lord. Let me complete my mission with this last letter... and then there will be rest."
It was coaxing and playful, manipulative. Thranduilion was an old hand at this game. But Elrond did not like the choice of words, not at all, and it made him peevish.
"Your mission," Elrond snapped, "does not end with conveying a message to me. It ends when you are safe in your own home, and you've conveyed my reply to your father."
Legolas read right through him. "I didn't... think you would be so... superstitious, my lord. I retract the statement if it displeases you so. But if you would help me... with this one thing. My mind would be... so much more at ease."
"I stand corrected," Elrond declared exasperatedly, "You are worse than my sons."
"I highly doubt that," said Legolas, breathlessly but brightly, because he knew he was going to get what he was asking for. Elrond did indeed call out for the desired items to be brought forth. Not to be outdone though, he bargained for the elven prince to have some bread and broth, which Legolas agreed to begrudgingly.
As they waited, Elrond took a soft, clean convalescent's robe from the stocks in the room, and went about helping Legolas into it, first by the right sleeve, and then leaving the left to just hover over his shoulder and chest, so as not to jar the contusion on his heart. Legolas still blanched from the exertion.
"With those fools at least I know what to expect," Elrond said of his sons as he worked, and it distracted Legolas from his struggles. "They are more straightforward. Your smiling subterfuge is far more deceptive."
It made the pale elf smile wider, and the youthful expression made Elrond ache again.
The heart, it was a tricky instrument...
He hoped the prince's condition would improve quickly with rest, and that there would be no further issues.
# # #
Not quite true to his word, the Woodland Prince had one more thing to do after penning and then yielding his messaging key code to Elrond. Half-heartedly munching on his food, he motioned for a wax-treated sack that had been removed from his person by the healing hall attendants when they were first helping him settle in bed.
Elrond gave him a disapproving glare, but the bright expression on his face was irresistible as he explained, "Now that I have discharged my duties for aran-nin, let me do something for my own pleasure. Please, my lord. The contents of that are for you."
Elrond frowned, but opened the sack and peered into it. There were pieces of delicately folded paper inside, each holding a miscellany of leaves, bark and seeds, accompanied with what looked to be written descriptions.
"A few plants native to home," Legolas told him, "with medicinal properties that may interest you. There are... some that grow with the Enchanted River for a water source... interesting effects when properly harnessed." He stifled a cough and chuckled as he added, "Keep those away... from your curious sons."
"Thank you, penneth," Elrond said, genuinely touched by the thoughtfulness. Imladris saw plenty of guests but few gifts.
The younger elf grinned at him sleepily.
"Penneth," Legolas murmured as he abandoned his half-eaten food and leant back to lie down, finally heading off to rest and dreaming. "I've not heard that... in a while."
# # #
Elrond did not dare leave him alone.
The pulse, breathlessness and lapses in awareness were genuine concerns. The healer sat alongside the prince's bed and checked occasionally at the heartbeat on his wrist and neck, as he read through Thranduil's letters.
As the hours wore on, Elrond started formulating his responses – in the secret code Thranduil had just proposed. The Lord of Imladris was not above showing off his Noldorin ability to quickly master a new, intellectual skill. If inspiration struck, Elrond might even slip him a poem in this code, perhaps a dirty cinquain or sonnet to ruffle that unflappable Sindar a little.
Elrond studied the code key written in Legolas' clear, thin, aggressive strokes. He had a neat and sure hand, but was light on the ink. It did not have Thranduil's heavier, more deliberate penmanship. Elrond remembered someone or other saying that how one wrote said a lot about the person, and wondered if and how it applied here.
The peaceful silence was broken by Legolas shifting restlessly, and even in sleep his hand drifted to his chest in distress. Elrond reached for his hand to lower it to the bed. He replaced it with his own and felt again, some irregularity in the heartbeat.
Elrond infused the other elf with comfort and healing, as he stretched his fea toward the troubled chest. He followed the intricate pathways of the heart encased within it, and found no untoward bleeding. It was beating strongly too, but its impulses were jarred, confused. He winced, and hoped he wouldn't have to cut into the younger elf for exploration and repair. It would be a serious undertaking, and a potentially deadly one - the proverbial cure that could be worse than the illness it sought to remedy.
Legolas settled, but not for long. He groaned and coughed, and his dreamy gaze focused slightly to a bit of wakefulness. They settled on Elrond's face and he smiled indulgently.
"Elladan," he murmured in happy greeting. "I was wondering... when you'd turn up."
Elrond frowned at him worriedly. "Not quite, ernil-nin."
Legolas' eyes sharpened to more alertness, and his pale complexion reddened slightly. "Ah, apologies, my lord. Your resemblance... I thought for a moment..." his voice drifted off, just as his gaze strayed to the doors of his room. His disappointment was veiled from Elrond when his brows furrowed and he closed his eyes. He exhaled slowly.
Elrond gave him time to gather himself.
"I used to be quite good... at waking up on my own," Legolas said with an embarrassed smile, still keeping his eyes closed. "A few years of regularly visiting here... and your hysterical, hovering sons... have spoiled me. Whenever I wake up... I almost find myself expecting... a parade."
Elrond smiled at him gently. Legolas had no brothers, he remembered, and had been readily taken in by Elladan, Elrohir and Estel owing to their shared tragic histories, equally morbid sense of humor, and an uncanny propensity for ending up in these very halls. The young prince was bewildered at first – the twins and their adopted human could be overwhelming, he had to admit – but once Legolas opened up more, their friendship was fast and deep.
"If they see you like this," said Elrond, "That's exactly what you might get. Dizzy?"
Legolas nodded briefly; regretted it quickly. He broke into a cold sweat, and his face took on a greenish shade that faded with a few more careful breaths. He opened his eyes and looked up at his healer and host. He exhaled slowly and chuckled at himself.
"I've never... suffered a bruise... quite like this."
"The heart is tricky," Elrond said. "Do not take it lightly."
Legolas nodded and rubbed at his chest. Elrond drew out another pot of salve to put on his skin; a topical remedy he was more confident with, over medicines that could further alter heartbeat, breathing and awareness.
"If I may?"
"I can do it, my lord," said Legolas. "I've imposed upon you... enough. You must have... better things to do."
Elrond ignored the dismissal. He opened the pot and held it for Legolas, who took an amount of the salve into his fingers and rubbed them over the sore chest.
"More," Elrond encouraged him.
Legolas looked at the small container skeptically.
"There is more where that came from, ernil," said Elrond. "I wouldn't worry about depleting the stock."
Legolas did as he was bid, and Elrond watched him work with an eagle eye. Where Legolas put the medicine and how he applied and reacted to his own ministrations offered clues on locational issues of the injury. Where he put generous amounts, how gingerly he pressed at skin... all of these hinted at what hurt where, and how much.
"Why Elladan?" Elrond suddenly remembered to ask.
"Hm?"
"You guessed I was Elladan," Elrond said, "not Elrohir."
Legolas smiled to himself in fond remembrance. "You were blurry... but assuredly not Estel so it was going to be... either one of the twins. I always say Elladan's name first whenever I can – alphabetical and justifiable... and neither of them can give me grief... about being unfair."
Elrond laughed softly. "You are indeed, a diplomat."
Legolas suddenly gasped and jerked, and his startled eyes went up to Elrond's in unguarded alarm for a breathless moment, before he caught himself. The healer's hand shot forward to the pulse point at the younger elf's neck, finding it jolting, and then sluggish.
"Now that," Legolas murmured dizzily, "I felt."
Elrond put his free hand over the afflicted heart and closed his eyes, sending his fea out probing, while sharing some of his strength. But on this mortal plane, the soul and body had to work in concert. There were limits to what the fea could see and fix, just as there were limits to one's physical hroa. Healing was always supposed to be with the heart and the hands, and the implications of this for Legolas' treatment was heavy.
Elrond still wasn't seeing the improvements he was hoping for, and if things continued in this fashion, he really would need to cut into the ernil's body to determine and set into motion the best course for him.
Legolas grunted in pain, prompting Elrond to realize he may have pressed too heavily over the chest in his desire to sense what was going on inside. He pulled his touch away and opened his eyes.
Legolas stared at him with grim understanding.
"I am... the messenger," he said wryly, "but you... look like the one... bearing ill news."
Elrond shook his head at the perverse humor. "There is time yet, young one. We can wait and watch for things to get better, a little bit longer."
"Otherwise...?"
Elrond pressed his lips together thoughtfully, before answering. "If you get worse, the injury is such that I cannot know the full extent of what is wrong and how to help you if I can only see skin-deep. Healing is with the soul and body, Legolas. Thus, half of me is blind unless I cut you to see what is happening inside."
A nervous laugh bubbled out of the younger elf's mouth, making him gasp softly and touch his chest in pain. "You will cut me open... to fix me. There is some irony there that one could not help but... appreciate."
"Hopefully it wouldn't come to that."
"And if it did?"
Elrond gave him a thoughtful stare, and wondered how truthful he could be. He tilted his head at the elven prince in careful consideration, and found in the other's sharp, determined, intelligent gaze, the confidence to proceed with objectivity.
"The surgery will be exploratory in nature first," Elrond said. "I will make an incision down your chest, part flesh to expose the bones there - they cage and protect the delicate workings within, as you know. I may find what is wrong right away and have access to it between the ribs, I might not. In that case, there is a particular bone down the center of your chest. It is slightly damaged now, you must be feeling it."
"Oh, yes."
"A controlled break of that bone and parting it will expose the organs within," Elrond said. "When I find the answers I seek, I will repair and close."
"You will..." Legolas hesitated. "You will break me... open. I must admit it sounds..."
Terrifying? Elrond's mind supplied. Horrible? Disgusting? Barbaric?
The young prince surprised him with pragmatic objectivity.
"It sounds lethal," Legolas said.
"In proper conditions with excellent technique it is survivable," said Elrond. "The injury has to be repairable to begin with, of course. The intervention has to be timely too. The mix of medications that depress the patient's consciousness and pain perception while keeping his heart beating and keeping him breathing will also be a challenge. That will require consistent monitoring and adjustments along the course of the procedure. The bleeding needs to be controlled as well. And in the end the site has to be pristine, to avoid infection. There are many moving parts, all of which need to be managed almost perfectly, for there to be a chance at success."
"Lucky... I am in good hands then," Legolas said meaningfully. "The best hands."
"Recovery afterwards will take over a month," said Elrond. "And twice that time at least, before a storied archer can be allowed to draw his bow. If you do not improve soon, Legolas – this is what I feel we must do."
"I understand," Legolas nodded. He shifted uneasily and looked down at his hands. "I have... every faith in your prowess, my lord. But you wouldn't take it poorly would you, if I... if I were to write something... to my king, if the worst should...come to pass?"
"Of course not," Elrond said gently. "Indeed, I would recommend it, and I would do the same if our situations were reversed."
Legolas drew a deep breath and stifled a cough. "Then if I may...?"
Elrond nodded, and called for a tray table and parchment and ink. He returned to Legolas' bedside.
"I thought it was just... bruising," Legolas said with a grimace, shifting uncomfortably again. "Why would I think... I fought on this, my lord. I won. I walked here. Is there anything... I should have done?"
Elrond shook his head. "None of this is your fault, ernil. As you said – what were you supposed to think, and what else could you have done where you were?"
Legolas sighed, but his breathing hitched and he ended up doubling over coughing, and gasping for breath. He pushed to sit, and Elrond assisted him discreetly, setting pillows higher up against the headboard and pushing him to lean against them before backing away once the prince settled. Legolas looked at him wearily.
"I appreciate your attention," he said hoarsely, "But I needn't be... waited on hand and foot, my lord... do I? Least of all by you."
"I told you close observation and monitoring would be necessary," Elrond reminded him.
"Yes but," Legolas argued, "Surely there are... other demands on the time of the Lord of Imladris." He looked genuinely bothered at what he assumed was an imposition.
It wasn't untrue, and Elrond was not going to insult his intelligence by denying it. Legolas, Elrond guessed, was probably used to his busy father the Elvenking being needed for far more pressing things than handholding him in his sickbed. But he could very well be dying, and he worried about being burdensome?
"I will strike a bargain with you, Legolas," said Elrond. "You are right, there are other things I must leave you to do. I will go. At any rate, you are probably not looking forward to someone looking over your shoulder as you write to your adar. But you simply cannot be left alone in this state. One of the healers will be in this room sitting by that table," he motioned for one near the doors. "They will come closer only if you need them. I will find you the most humorless one, you will barely know they are there."
Legolas' pert nose wrinkled slightly in princely dismay. But he nodded, and his eyes lit in humor.
"You know hir-nin," he said warmly, "Estel, in his more maudlin moods, would have made a great candidate for the position."
Elrond laughed, because it was funny and sometimes true of his adopted adan and youngest. But the truth was, when it came to the well-being of this wood-elf, none of his sons could stand to be so "far" - even if it was just a chair across the room. And none of them would be nonchalant about it.
The presence of his usual cohorts, Elrond thought, could have some benefit for the Prince's health. Furthermore if things went ill, Elrond could use the help of his sons, who each had their own powers and prowess for healing.
When he left Legolas to the letter he was writing to his father, Elrond quickly wrote and sent off one of his own: a missive calling his sons back home, to be delivered by none less than the fleet-footed Lord Glorfindel upon his shimmering steed.
Hurry home, my sons, he wished as he sent away the golden warlord to the task, Hurry home.
# # #
Healing, when unused, could be such an intellectual exercise.
Imladris had no shortage of master healers, owing to Elrond's presence and tutelage matched with a good amount of leisure hours during relatively peaceful times, and the Noldorin affinity for knowledge. There were vast libraries too, well-maintained and constantly added to because the territory was secure. The mastery of healing was pursued as ardently as other sciences and arts.
But because they lived in a secure territory in a wary but peaceful era, there was little practice to theory. The beneficiaries of the medical mastery here were relatively few - Elrond's wife, for example, whose body had been pulled from torture and near-death enough to survive a trip to the havens even if her mind had fled; his sons, in any of their more ill-fated excursions; the occasional elven visitor from Lothlorien with their own ills; and on instances such as now – Legolas Greenleaf, the Woodland Prince.
He gathered his preeminent healers on the case, and they debated their approach if Legolas' progression continued to go poorly. A particular sticking point was the kind and amount of pain relief they could give him without killing him.
One of the healers was very straightforward: a sense-deadening tea for direct consumption through ingestion while the patient was awake, to be re-applied "at need." It grotesquely meant they expected the patient to wake up at some point, and somehow, partake of more. He was debated mercilessly.
They discussed other options: chemicals breathed in through a cloth, for example, and potent compounds that sank into the skin, like poison but harnessed for the good. They explored the merits of making shallow cuts to the flesh and slipping in animal-fat-mixed, hardened pellets of medicine that would dissolve and be absorbed into the bloodstream. They discussed medicine-treated threads that would be needle-coursed through skin and vein.
One of the younger healers though, piqued Elrond's interest with a proposal.
She was newer than the rest, with a fresh and creative mind. Her excitement for intellectual pursuit and passion for her craft outweighed a slight shyness for having the least seniority in the group. She brought with her a bulbous, glass contraption with multiple stems and nodes, connecting to a thin, hollow tube. There were herbs and compounds one could burn, she said, the fumes of which could be breathed in through the mouth "like a pipe." The patient could breathe in the medicine – which could be done even while rendered senseless.
"The problem," Elrond said authoritatively, and eager to see how she would respond to a challenge, "is that the patient's breathing is steadily becoming inefficient."
She blushed slightly at the interrogation but stood her ground. "The method is sound, my lord. It is the composition of what the ernil breathes that we can improve. This system of delivery can even make his breathing efficient by the creation of purer air to go with the medicines for pain and unconsciousness."
Her response was met by thoughtful murmurs, and Elrond himself narrowed his eyes in genuine interest. They would end, he supposed, with a combination of approaches. He assigned the young healer to take charge of the mix of methods they would employ of keeping the patient pain-free and senseless. She received the charge with energy and determination, and her appointment was met with approval; Elrond had always cultivated an environment where the best ideas won.
He then tapped the expertise of other healers to compartmentalized tasks. One was not a master healer but had a gift with bones – reading them, breaking them, setting them. Elrond knew he would be needed for the ribs and sternum. There were other talents: a healer who had particular knowledge of the lungs was brought on board. Elrond himself would tend the heart and overlook the entirety of care.
"This is all premature of course," he said. "There is a chance for improvement yet."
"I am most eager to see how our solutions work," the young healer said, exposing the blind brilliance of her fewer years.
"I for one would be content to keep this knowledge in theory," Elrond said pointedly, "if it means the afflicted improves and our invasive interventions are not required."
"Of course my lord," she said quickly, placing a hand over her heart in deep apology. "I was thoughtless. It will not happen again."
It would, Elrond thought, because she was young, bright and hungry. But that was what youth was for, wasn't it? And if the occasional thoughtlessness was the only tradeoff for her innovativeness and drive, he could take the glib remark lightly.
Best she not be heard by my sons though, he thought, and he remembered them, and wondered where they were, and wished them well, and hoped their circumstances would allow them to return promptly.
# # #
Elrond stood at the doors of the ernil's room with a frown, observing how the ill elf was walking carefully back to bed, trailed at the elbow by a hovering healer ready to catch him if he stumbled or fell. By the determined set of Legolas' jaws though, such assistance was not going to be required.
For now, whispered that low, insistent voice in Elrond's scarred heart, the wary one that always tempers hope with pragmatism, the one that always says Yet.
Legolas made it to sit on the edge of the bed on his own steam. He looked cleaner – freed from blood and travel grime, his golden hair darkened to honey from having been washed and still being damp. He had come from freshening up, but the effort cost him: trembling and winded, he remained sitting where he was for a long moment.
His feet bare, his body clad only in a convalescent slip and a robe, his hair unbraided... he looked frail, Elrond reflected – a word he'd never associated with any of Thranduil's soldiers, much less his finest one. Not entirely frail, though – his brows were furrowed and his eyes aflame. His hands were curled so powerfully to fists at his sides that his veins stood out from them. They were the outlet of his confusion and frustration at his own weakness, at his inability to get better.
Elrond strode forward, and the healer who had been at Legolas' elbow gave him a bow and backed away. Elrond squatted before Legolas, to meet his lowered gaze.
"Hir-nin," Legolas said, voice and tone harsh, jerking uncertainly because it was not proper at all, for the Lord of the House to almost be kneeling before him.
"Hush now," Elrond told him firmly. Legolas gave him a brief, resigned nod, and Elrond helped him lift his suddenly unmanageable legs to the bed.
The ernil grimaced in discomfort and embarrassment as he suffered the assistance. He leaned back exhaustedly on his own, and looked up at Elrond gratefully.
"Hannon-le," he murmured, before closing his eyes to sleep.
Elrond put a blanket over him, and then left him in the custody of the healer who had been by his side.
The Lord of Imladris had many things to do, one of them being to light a fire under his hungry new master healer, he thought – their timelines would have to be pushed forward.
# # #
Elrond returned to find the Woodland Prince awake but miserable, being helped to lean backward on a collection of pillows by one healer, while another scurried away with a sick bowl that had apparently just been in use.
Legolas murmured his apologies and thanks to them, and was left alone to blearily watch the pair and other healers and attendants moving around his room.
His breathing had worsened; Elrond was told the prince couldn't countenance lying down anymore and preferred sitting. Even then, the laborious effort it took was audible from where Elrond was, and visible in the chest as it rose and fell.
The attention was drifting too – again, awareness without real focus. The fact that Elrond's presence was undetected by one of the best warriors in all of Arda was alarming in itself. Doubly so, when Legolas' gaze settled on Elrond's form and again mistook him for one of his sons.
"Elrohir," he said – the tone was clipped, militaristic. "Tell Estel to go back... inside. It is too cold... for edain."
Elrond stepped closer, and he commandeered the chair beside the bed, near Legolas' left arm. It was nicked in spots, covered by a white cloth spotted in blood. Elrond recognized the healers' hands in this – a trial of methods of delivering medicine through the skin, in preparation for the operation that now seemed fated. The arm was crawling with gooseflesh too.
"I must disappoint you again, I'm afraid," Elrond told him gently.
Legolas blinked and was a beat slow to recover. But his gaze sharpened. "And I apologize... again."
"Elrohir this time, though?" Elrond asked, curiously.
"He can goad...stubborn Estel into almost anything," Legolas said, grinning shakily. His lower lip trembled.
"Cold?" Elrond asked, though he did not have to. The healer was hiking up the blanket over the younger elf's shoulders and slipping the left arm back into its warmth, even before Legolas nodded.
"M-my feet," Legolas mumbled, "Of all things. I... it is strange. I can barely, barely...feel them."
Elrond acknowledged the new and worrying information with a faux-nonchalant nod, and he rose from his chair and moved to the foot of the bed. He lifted the blanket there, and found without surprise that the extremities in question were swollen from the ankles down. He covered them again to keep Legolas warm, though he lifted the blanket slightly at the belly to check the abdomen – swollen too, unsurprisingly.
The heart is a complex instrument...
"Your heart is failing, ernil-nin," Elrond told him quietly, settling back into the chair beside the bed.
Legolas received the news with a wince. He looked exhausted, and had perhaps expected something along the lines of that grave diagnosis by now.
"I would recommend we proceed with the surgery I explained earlier," said Elrond, "while you have the strength to weather what is to come."
"This is... strength?" Legolas managed a gasping, self-deprecating laugh.
Elrond planted his elbows on his knees, clasped his hands together as if in prayer and leaned closer to him. He willed the other elf to look him in the eye, to be serious. But when the blue gaze of the younger elf lifted to his, the recognition of the gravity of the situation was already there - they just differed in their approach to take it as lightly as possible.
"You have a difficult choice before you," Elrond said. "If we do the procedure immediately, there is a higher chance of success. But if it is not successful – for by its nature I can offer you no guarantees – doing it now would shorten the time you have left."
"I don't need more time," Legolas said quietly. "I need better chances."
"I also need to know you understand," said Elrond, "that when I put you to sleep, you will be asleep for a long time – if you even wake at all. You will be unconscious for the surgery, and for a long recovery afterwards to keep you immobile and help with healing. You will be fully dependent upon the care of this House during that time, and likely for some time even when you wake up as you gather your own strength. That is the scenario if we win. If we do not..."
"I wake... in someone else's Halls," Legolas joked, in reference to that of Mandos. "I understand, my lord."
"Will your adar understand?" Elrond asked.
Legolas gave him a wry smile. "He won't... start a war... if you crack open... his son's body down... the middle? An... understandable concern." But his face turned serious, and his gaze drifted to his message cylinder, closed now with his own seal and sitting demurely on one of the room's tables along with his other personal effects.
"There are... letters to my king, and my father."
Separate letters, Elrond noted, for the same person.
"I addressed that concern... explicitly," said Legolas. "He will not doubt... that I gave consent to the endeavor... with full understanding... and acceptance of all possible... outcomes. You will not... be held liable... for anything."
"Would you want a witness of unimpeachable character as well," Elrond asked, "who can attest to your consent?"
"My written word... will be more than enough for him," said Legolas. "But if it will ease your mind my lord, you are welcome to involve... such a person. But for myself, my affairs are... well in order."
"I shall see your letters safely delivered into Thranduil's very hands, if the worst should happen," Elrond promised.
"They are," Legolas shifted uncomfortably, "short. Save for absolving... you and your House... if harm should befall me... the contents are almost... inconsequential. I suppose... living as we have... these past centuries... and one learns to say... what one needs to... at the door, if you get my meaning. I have... a succession plan for aran-nin. And Adar knows my heart."
He took a deep, shaky breath. "Early on though... I made... many such... letters to my father and king... handed off hastily to this soldier or that... anytime I felt in mortal peril. The Valar know where these might be... by now. I believe... your sons... held custody... to a couple of mine."
Elrond's brows rose in surprise. He knew his sons and Legolas have gone on many adventures and misadventures together, but he did not know they gave each other these soldierly goodbye letters to be given to loved ones in the event of death.
"Not Estel though," Legolas said ruefully. "He wouldn't... touch the things...he is well-named for 'hope.' But better he be named... 'stubborn,' sometimes. He was treating... a particularly bad injury of mine once... and I prevailed upon him... to take one of my letters. Terrified me... when he finally accepted." Legolas laughed softly. "After I was out of danger... he burned it... made me watch. He was... very angry... told me... never again."
"He doesn't leave letters with you, I suppose?"
"No," Legolas answered. "But Elladan and Elrohir... have handed theirs to me at one point or another. I suppose... Estel wouldn't take it from them either. I keep them... in my home. One never knows... nowadays." Legolas answered the question Elrond did not give voice to: "I've only... held them... I've never... read -" he broke off with a wet cough, covering his mouth with one hand while the other drifted over his wretched heart.
"Elladan's is considerably longer," Elrond guessed with a wry grin, both for his own comfort and that of his worsening patient. "And they gave it to you separately, didn't they? Likely not even telling each other."
"You know... your sons... well," Legolas said with a huffing laugh.
Elrond did, just as he knew what would probably be in their last letters home. These missives would include unwarranted apologies, for that heavily-borne, undeserved burden of guilt for what their mother and Elrond's beloved wife Celebrian, had suffered. There would be brief tactical and strategic information, out of habit. There would likely be confessions of random youthful transgressions – like who finally really broke that priceless vase in the library (Elrond already knew it was Elladan); who made off with one of Celebrian's hairpins on a failed love affair (Elrohir, before his mother came into harm's way – now everything Celebrian had ever touched was precious beyond measure); who had made off with that short clip of sleeping Glorfindel's hair on a dare (Elrond knew it was Estel – no one knew how).
There would be reminders to take care: of the self, of whoever remained of them, of home. There would be brief mentions of cherished memories. And always, every word – nay every letter, every stroke of it - would be underlined with love, because their House was always flush with it.
"If I should die," Legolas said quietly, "I suppose... you would... have to account for it to the Elvenking...as well, my lord."
Elrond hesitated, briefly. They were beginning to talk as if death was assumed, and he did not like the bitter taste of it. Like Estel, he always leaned toward hope – not to mention, stubbornness. But Legolas, young as he was, was a warrior with sensitivity, intelligence, pragmatism, and a wealth of experience. They both already knew what they hoped and worked for, just as they knew their odds. They could talk about death with a measure of objectivity, here.
"You are a foreign prince in the custody of my House," Elrond said, "and a beloved friend of the family besides. It will be my responsibility to do so. But I will be writing to your adar in two capacities - as Elrond the lord of this House and the healer in charge of your care; and also as the father of your friends, perhaps a friend to you also."
"We are friends," Legolas said with a shy, smiling certainty. At the mention of the word though, his eyes drifted to the doors again. Again, he was looking for Elrond's sons.
"I am sorry they are not here," Elrond said.
"Maybe...it is just as well," Legolas said. "Estel for one... does not have... the stomach for this...sort of... conversation." He hesitated. "That is... unfair, and I will correct myself. He has... the stomach for this... and a great many things. Just perhaps... not the natural... disposition."
Elrond smiled at Legolas for the kind words, and in memory of his own beloved, adopted son. "I've never met anyone who hates losing so much."
Legolas laughed aloud then, but abruptly cut himself off when his breath hitched. He closed his eyes to gather himself, before speaking again: "My lord... when you write... my father. Would you tell him...that I was not alone? That I was among... true and good friends?"
Well, thought Elrond sadly in reference to himself, One.
"That... I was on a bed, with warm blankets..."
But why are you so cold?
"That... there was no pain?"
Except you are drowning in your own body.
"That... I did not suffer?"
Though every breath is torture.
"That this is... a much better passing... than I ever had cause... to hope for?"
It was true in some ways. Warriors of Eryn Galen – Mirkwood, lately - tended to die in a myriad of other more violent ways. Elrond had seen Legolas' scars. But this was a perversion of a hope, too. At the prince's young age, the idea of death should never have been seeded, much less borne any fruit. But he looked sick and so earnestly imploring, that Elrond would have told him anything.
"I will do as you say," Elrond promised gravely.
"Tell him also... that I was not afraid."
But you should be, Elrond thought helplessly, for he found that he was. He had the healthy humility, as a healer, to be afraid. He was afraid very much to fail this bright, kindly soul.
"You must rest and preserve your strength," Elrond told him, "and I will make preparations. We will put you to sleep soon, and then there will be relief."
"One way or another," Legolas murmured, closing his eyes.
# # #
Elrond stood again at the door, watching his bewildered patient take stock and struggle to make sense of the contraptions and characters gathering around him. Legolas barely had any breath or focus to ask them questions, and they were too preoccupied to read his expressions or make any attempt at patient explanations.
The healers bustled busily about Legolaa with respect but also inextricably, a certain clinical detachment. He was a body with a problem they needed to solve, a challenge they had to overcome. It was both cruel and a comfort, to be regarded so objectively. But that was part of the craft – the calling – of healing. There would always be a place for compassion and it was the heartbeat through everything. However, competence, calculation and cool heads had to prevail.
Legolas looked nervous though, and he had cause to be. He would be put to sleep, and whether it would be for good or for now was unknown. Elrond strode to his side, and he looked up at the Lord of Imladris with his impossibly blue eyes. He looked young and terrified for a moment, but he blinked and found his dark humor.
"I am usually... unconscious... for this part."
Elrond gave him an appreciative, wry grin. It was likely true; when gravely injured, warriors like Legolas were usually packed off the warzone with battlefield medicine and by the time they were rushed into operations, they would be insensate.
"Well, what do you think?"
"Everyone looks... so busy and... important."
Elrond couldn't help himself - he laughed. He was reminded of the casual courage it took to laugh again, to laugh anew, to have the ability to find joy in dark places. He was also reminded of how fond he was of this young elf, and how unjust it would be if he were lost and silenced today.
He couldn't help himself in one other way – he reached for the younger elf's head, patted it, pushed away the stray strands of fine gold hair. It was an unnecessary act, not quite one of a pragmatic healer. He touched Legolas with a father's hand, and he seemed to understand. Legolas closed his eyes, and their souls touched, and Elrond let the other elf take him to the woods, to home, to where his own father was. He practically smelled the leaves, the dewy grass, the earthy and metallic mulch.
Elrond uttered then, something a sensible healer should not have – a guarantee.
"You will be home again, Legolas," he said, and he tried not to regret it, the moment the words sprung so recklessly from his mouth.
"I will endeavor... not to make a liar of you, my lord," whispered the other – teasing just enough, to remove the edge off of a promise that should not have been said and might still be broken, and giving himself a role in its completion.
Sharing the burden of it.
Absolving Elrond of blame if he should fail.
Elrond looked up and around them. The bustle had ceased, and his people were looking at him expectantly to begin.
"Do you have any questions before we proceed?" Elrond asked the prince.
Legolas' blue gaze had turned to steel, and he shook his head. "If I may say... just one more thing." He looked at the Imladrians around him. "I thank you all... for your work and caring. No matter the outcome... The stars will always... shine upon this House... for the kind generosity of all... within it."
He put both his hands over his heart, and leaned forward in the best bow he could muster – Elrond had to help straighten him afterwards, as his words were met warmly, with a flurry of murmurs of appreciation and wishes of healing and luck, and not a few prayers. He smiled wanly at them all, before turning his attention back to Elrond.
"It was..." he whispered, "a grief to my heart... when I came here... with the message ending... our regular exchanges. I hope you know... that in my personal capacity... it had become a great joy and eager expectation... to keep returning here. You must have... so many guests who had ever... walked these halls... and been so attached to it. I am but one... of certainly many. But your home is exceptional... and holds pride of place... in my heart. I'd wished for better... in this last visit. But it is what it is... and I find I can only... express the utmost gratitude... to you and your family... for having been so kind to me. Thank you, my lord. For... everything."
"Seeing you is always a great joy to us, Legolas," Elrond assured him, "and you would be a blind fool not to know you've long past been more than just another guest to us. Be at ease now, ernil-nin. We will all see better days – here, and elsewhere."
One of the attendants handed the lord a sleeping draught – the first of the many means they have devised to keep Legolas in relative comfort when they cut into him. Elrond helped Legolas to drink, and then let it settle.
"You will need to lie flat now," Elrond said when the blue gaze started to dull. "I know it is uncomfortable and you find it hard to breathe, but there will be relief soon."
Legolas nodded wearily, and shifted forward with the healer's help. His difficulties began at once but he bore it quietly, the only indication being his hands fisting at his sides, and that he had started breathing with his mouth. His eyes began to glaze, and Elrond' bright young healer came forward with her contraption. The end of the breathing tube attached to the intricate glass beaker was adorned by what looked like the wooden mouth tip of a pipe. Legolas saw it, and his eyes widened slightly in recognition.
"Stolen from Estel's room," Elrond told him, which he knew would be appreciated. Legolas' eyes crinkled at the edges, as the end of the pipe was slipped into the corner of his mouth and he breathed in the purer air from the apparatus.
He drifted for a long moment, and slowly fell asleep smiling –
The doors to his room burst open just as his eyes closed.
Elrond's sons arrived in their usual flurry of movement and noise – remarkable, considering the feats of stealth they were supposedly credited for. They did not enter the room or venture any closer though; they knew they were grimed from the road and presented their ill friend with much danger.
"Legolas!" Estel bellowed, to be followed by equally insistent calls from his adopted elven brothers, while all three of them hurriedly divested themselves of their traveling clothes and started cleaning up on washbowls.
It would be a good memory one day, if things turned out well – these grown men throwing aside weapons and wares until they were down to their smallclothes, yelling for their friend, washing, tossing water around everywhere in their haste, battling each other for clean, ill-fitting, borrowed clothes sourced from nearby.
Elrond, leaning toward hope, looked down at the Woodland Prince and wished very much that he heard the new arrivals. That somehow, at the tail-end of his awareness, Legolas knew that his friends had come. That Legolas knew, in the friendships forged in fire, he made a brotherhood beyond blood. That Legolas knew he was equally cherished.
But the elven prince's eyes were closed, and his face was blank and slack. He had already yielded his consciousness, and placed his fate – literally his very heart - into his healers' hands.
Elrond sighed in acute disappointment. But he had work to do, and damned right there was hope yet.
"Adar."
"Adar."
"Adar."
One by one his sons streamed past him with polite murmurs of acknowledgment, single-minded in reaching the friend who had become their brother. There were always just two sides to a bed though, and it was a race who would commandeer these prized spots in a vigil. Elrond watched them subtly race to it – Elladan and Elrohir each claimed a side, leaving the slightly pouting Estel to the foot of the bed.
Elrond had seen the four of them in various iterations of this, depending on who was unwell, depending on who was fastest at the time. Once it was Estel human-sick on the bed, his brothers on either side of him, the Woodland Prince ending up on the foot of the bed – delayed by a limp from a broken leg but given no quarter as the twins rushed past him to get to the sick adan. Sometimes it was either one of his two sons lying down. Sometimes there were multiple beds pressed side by side together. Awake, asleep, sitting down, standing up, lying down... visits and vigils over visits and vigils over visits and vigils.
It was not an easy life.
But each of these always ended with awakenings and opened eyes and recoveries, didn't they? Why not this latest one, too?
Why not?
Why not?
Elrond stepped forward toward his sons – all four of them now, he supposed, and how in the world did they keep multiplying and coming out of the woodwork?
"You've been briefed on his condition and what we must do?" Elrond asked the three new arrivals.
"Yes, adar," they answered.
"Good," he said with a grim, determined nod. "I will need your help calling him back. Let's get to work."
THE END