Chapter 6: Epidemic

Thranduil sat by his son's bedside, silently watching as healers moved in and out among the now eight elves lying in comas. This disease, for they knew not what else to call it, was spreading faster with each passing hour. The wizards had only been gone a day; by the time they returned, all of Mirkwood may have fallen to this mysterious illness.

The king turned away from the grief-stricken and anxious expressions of his subjects, and gazed upon the smooth, impassive face of his son. It had been many years since Thranduil had watched Legolas sleep, and even more centuries since such nightly vigils had shown the prince at peace. Life in Mirkwood was not easy. It was a constant battle against the encroaching Shadow, a ceaseless struggle that had no foreseeable end. Thranduil knew that every time Legolas went out on patrol his life could be sacrificed for a realm most considered dark and terrible, and even fewer held dear. But the wood-elves stayed, for it was their home.

Thranduil reached up to rub his forehead. Knowing the risks his son and his people took was one thing, for they were capable warriors. But this…this invisible enemy able to strike them down without warning, without the ability to fight back or protect themselves…that was worse.

A figure entered his field of vision, and Elrohir laid a hand on Legolas's brow, his own furrowed with worry and weariness. None had slept since more elves had become ill, some because they were tirelessly on guard and tending the sick, others because they were afraid that to willingly sleep meant they would never wake.

Thranduil watched the tenderness on the young Peredhil's face, moved that Elrohir would split his time equally between his brother and Legolas. Their friendship had often bemused Thranduil, for though Mirkwood and Imladris were allies, they were also so different that relations were more formality than genuine kinship. With the exception of Legolas and Elrond's sons. And though the king had initially begrudged Legolas's desire to visit Rivendell annually, Thranduil had to admit that such trips always did his son's spirit a world of good. Whenever he returned home, it was with renewed fire to protect his people and the forest he was born in.

Elrohir's shoulders slumped, and he tucked the blanket more securely around Legolas's shoulder. Though the prince was cold to touch, he did not shiver. Too often Thranduil's mind would drift from exhaustion, only to startle awake when it looked as though Legolas was lying dead. Yet he still breathed. Even if that was all he did.

"I do not understand," Elrohir whispered.

Thranduil looked up and saw the youth and vulnerability in the elf's eyes. Though they had a millennium of years, Elrond's sons and Legolas were young in comparison to how long Thranduil had walked this earth. It stirred his parental instincts—he should offer comfort or reassurances…though in this situation, he did not know how to.

"None of the healers do," he said instead.

Elrohir shook his head, glancing over his shoulder to the still form of his twin. "We both cared for Legolas on the journey back. Why is Elladan afflicted and I am not?"

Ah, so it was a form of survivor's guilt. Thranduil was all too familiar with that. But it did not mean he had an answer for the young elf; at least, not one that would satisfy.

"I am grieved for your brother," Thranduil said carefully. "But I am also glad you were there for my son when I was not."

Elrohir dropped his gaze to Legolas. "I don't know how to help them."

Thranduil felt the weight of his burdens and worry bear down on his soul. "Neither do I."

Legolas and Elladan moved cautiously under the trees, eyes constantly peeled for predators and other threats. There was no telling what they might come across in this strange spirit realm. Legolas wasn't sure how to feel about the fact that he was apparently still alive, only trapped in a deep sleep. It meant he had not been banned from the Halls of Mandos, a thought that had distressed him greatly. Although, if he was trapped in some sort of dream, was Elladan even real? Or a figment of his overwrought imagination?

No, he decided. If his mind were to conjure up someone to keep him company in this dreadful place, it probably wouldn't have been Elladan stuck in a web about to be devoured. Also, if what the Peredhil said was true, then there was hope now for Legolas to escape this realm if he managed to wake. If they both did. And so Legolas chose to believe his friend was truly by his side…but it was mingled with bitter shame. Elladan was here because of him, and though it pained him, he could not help but feel grateful to no longer be alone.

"I wonder if the forest truly goes on forever, or if it is an illusion," Elladan spoke up in a casual tone that belied his taut shoulders and grip on the makeshift dagger he'd fashioned.

"I have walked for a long time," Legolas pointed out.

"But if this is a dream construct, are you truly moving? Or staying in place while everything around you changes?"

Legolas tossed him an exasperated look. Yes, this Elladan was real. "Does it matter?"

Elladan shrugged. "It is just curious."

Legolas did not think so. He did not care to muse on the inner workings of this realm, for it must have been a twisted mind indeed that dreamt it up. However, he latched onto the lifeline of simply having someone to talk to after what felt like so long. "Where do the demons come from then? They don't seem like illusions."

"Hm, good point." Elladan hopped over a log covered in brown lichen. "I would say a lot of work went into this place. It is vast, but also…" He cocked his head as though extending his senses in a way Legolas could not. "Confining."

Legolas sighed in understanding. "I admit that since you told me I was merely dreaming, I have tried to force myself to wake." He glanced around the dreary forest. "But this is nothing like the paths of elven dreams."

"No, it is not," Elladan said with a frown. "But since our bodies are alive, that means our spirits are still tethered to them in some way, which means there must be a path that leads back to them. We just have to find it."

Legolas could not help the weighted feeling that settled on his shoulders then; this world was vast, and he had covered a lot of ground already. Plus, he did not even feel such a connection with his physical shell—and tried not to wonder what that meant. Elladan had said he'd been in a coma for at least two days. Was his tether weakening?

He froze as a vicious snarl echoed through the woods. Elladan whipped his blade up, gaze darting nervously around the foliage. The two of them may not be dead yet, but that didn't mean the demons inhabiting this world couldn't kill them. Legolas was poised to climb the nearest tree when a scream that did not belong to an animal followed. Exchanging a look with Elladan, they both leaped into action, barreling through the underbrush toward the savage sounds of a wild animal and the cries of its prey.

Legolas burst into a clearing, and his heart seized at the sight of an elf being mauled by what appeared to be a large wild cat. Like every creature in this realm, the sleek body was black. It had a bushy, sable mane and tufts of fur around its four paws. With a guttural roar, the beast slashed its claws at the elf scrabbling backward on the ground. He cried out as they tore across his chest.

"Ohtar!" Legolas leaped at the cat, slicing his dagger along its flank. The creature jerked back with a yowl and swiped a massive paw at him in retaliation. Legolas twisted away, narrowly avoiding the claws.

Elladan skirted around to the cat's other side before lunging forward with his own knife and jabbing it in the hip. He danced back as the cat whirled, and Legolas took that moment to dart in again. The jagged rock cut roughly through thick tissue and muscle, spraying black ichor onto the ground to mix with the crimson blood already staining it. Spitting an enraged hiss at them both, the beast bolted into a run and fled.

Legolas hurried to the wounded elf. "Ohtar…" He dropped to his knees, taking in the multiple lacerations covering the Mirkwood warrior's torso, arms, and legs. Tattered strips of clothing and skin hung like frayed banners singed with blood, and the glint of bone showed through some of the deeper gashes. Legolas's hands hovered in the air, unsure where to even start.

Ohtar gazed up at him through pupils blown wide as shock took root. Tremors ran through his body and ragged breaths hiccoughed in his throat. "My lord?" he gasped.

"Easy," Legolas replied, finally settling a hand on a spot on the elf's forearm that was not injured.

Elladan crouched on Ohtar's other side, mouth pressed into a grim line as he took in the injuries with a healer's critical eye. Blood was steadily pooling beneath the wounded elf and spreading like spilled oil.

"Look at me," Legolas commanded, drawing Ohtar's gaze. "You must be strong."

The warrior looked frightened, and his eyes darted around the strange forest. "My lord," he rasped. "You're here. Where—" A cough punched from his lungs, cutting off his words and choking him as blood gurgled up to drip out the corner of his mouth. It was pinkish and frothy.

Legolas shot Elladan a frantic look, but the Peredhil merely returned it sadly. No!

Ohtar wheezed out another desperate breath, and his hand clamped down on Legolas's arm. "Hir nîn, there are…others."

"Others?"

He nodded, though it caused a grimace. "Who…sleep."

Legolas's heart dropped into his stomach. Others in comas? Others who were trapped here? He glanced at Elladan again, whose brow was marred with a deep crease. Legolas caught his eye beseechingly; there had to be something… Elladan gave a small head shake.

Legolas briefly closed his eyes against the swell of grief. Ohtar was one of Mirkwood's warriors, a fierce defender of their home. He should not have to die like this, not in this wretched place.

"It's…" Ohtar coughed. "Spreading."

Legolas reached over and clasped the elf's shoulder. "Shh, save your strength."

Ohtar's breaths hitched faster and faster, until at last he sucked in a sharp inhalation, and it wheezed out in a slow, final movement. Brown eyes dimmed as they grew distant, the fëa extinguished.

Legolas bowed forward, touching his forehead to Ohtar's. "Govano in nothrim în adh i mellyn în mi Mannos." May he meet his family and friends in Mandos.

Legolas straightened, only to jerk back as Ohtar's body began to shimmer, his form turning translucent until Legolas could see through him to the blood-coated ground. And then the elf was gone, his spirit faded from this world. The only sign that he had been here at all was the crimson splashed against a gray backdrop. Such a display of color was macabre in this domain of death and horror.

"Do you think he woke?" Legolas asked in a soft voice. Elladan didn't respond, which in a way was answer enough. Legolas slowly got to his feet, eyes unable to look away from the bloody smears interspersed with black, oily splashes. This was his doing. Whatever curse the sorceress had laid upon him was spreading to his people and subjecting them to the same fate. How could he stop this? How could he prevent others from falling victim to this spell? And who had already succumbed? Elrohir? His father? There was no way to know.

"Legolas. Legolas."

He snapped his head up to find Elladan standing close, an ardent expression on his face.

"This is not your fault, mellon nîn."

A derisive snort escaped his throat. "No? Because of me, my people are dying!"

"You did not choose this," Elladan retorted. "Whoever is doing this is targeting all of Mirkwood, and probably would have used any elf to see it done."

Legolas squeezed his eyes shut, remembering the sorceress's words, how ecstatic she'd been to realize the elf she'd caught was the Prince of Mirkwood. "I know you speak the truth, Elladan," he said hoarsely. "But it does not change the fact that my duty is to protect my people, and I cannot."

Elladan clasped his shoulder. "Yes, you can. If other elves have been sent here, then we must find them."

Legolas looked up, jaw tightening as he drew strength from his friend. He nodded, and bent down to pick up their daggers, passing one to Elladan. "You're right. There will be safety in numbers, and perhaps we may learn what has been happening in Mirkwood."

When he turned away, Elladan grabbed his arm to stop him, eyes softening with compassion. "You have always shouldered many burdens, Legolas. Do not allow guilt to be one of them, especially when it is not rightly yours to bear."

After an extended moment of wrestling with his inner turmoil and Elladan's words, Legolas bowed his head. No longer would he be lost to despair, wandering this accursed place aimlessly. They had a plan now, a task to drive them forward—Legolas would find and protect his people. He glanced back at where Ohtar had lain, and just hoped they would not be too late again.

Elrohir rubbed his face wearily. He had not slept in several days, and while he knew running himself ragged would not help Elladan and Legolas, he could not bring himself to rest. Especially since it seemed doing so was a great risk in itself. Some of the elves had collapsed like Elladan, while others in the beginning had simply entered elven dreams, and when they were found, their eyes had closed and they would not wake.

The healers had begun to look to Elrohir for counsel, merely because he was the son of a great healer. But Elladan had always been the one more attuned to such work, while Elrohir favored the art of craftsmanship and weapon wielding.

Looking dejectedly at his twin's still form, Elrohir took Elladan's cold hand. If only our places were reversed, muindor. Your skills would be of more use here.

He hoped their father was on his way. Elrohir didn't know what Gandalf had written, whether there was space to mention Elladan's condition. Elrond would make haste if he knew his sons were in danger, but if it was just a call for aid from Mirkwood? Not that he would ever ignore a request for help, but time was of the essence, and Elrohir prayed his father would hurry. Perhaps he was even closer than they realized. He might have had a vision of his sons in need and already set out. Yes, Elrohir would hold onto that gossamer thread of hope.

A commotion drew his attention across the room where three healers had gathered around one of the elves. Elrohir lurched to his feet. Had someone woken? Or… He could not see clearly through the crowding bodies, but the elf in the bed did not appear to be moving.

Thranduil had risen as well, though he only shifted to the foot of Legolas's bed, reluctant to allow much distance between them. "Nesséro?" he called.

One of the healers lifted his head, face drawn as he skirted the beds to approach his king. "Hir nîn, it is Ohtar… He has passed into Mandos."

Elrohir's chest constricted. The first fatality, proving that this illness had the ability to take a life. He glanced worriedly at his brother and friend.

Thranduil's jaw was tight. "I will tell his family."

"What was the cause?" Elrohir spoke up. He may not have been a skilled healer, but he'd paid attention to his father's lessons.

Nesséro turned a helpless look over his shoulder toward the deceased elf as the other healers drew the sheet up over his head. "We do not know. He made no sound or indication of distress. It seems his heart and lungs simply stopped."

"When did he fall into the coma?"

"He was the sixth."

Elrohir frowned. Legolas and Elladan had been ill much longer, so why was Ohtar the first to die? "Was his fëa weakened by grief recently? Or had he a physical injury he was recovering from?"

Nesséro shook his head. "No, he was hale, as are—were—the others." He ducked his gaze away from Thranduil at the correction.

The Elvenking turned back toward his son, expression an unreadable tempest.

Nesséro looked to Elrohir. "Perhaps it was an isolated incident."

"Perhaps," he murmured in feeble agreement. He hated being so powerless, forced to watch his friends suffer with no idea how to help them. Elrohir should have gone with the wizards; at least then he would have felt useful. But he couldn't bear to leave his brother's side. They had never been far apart from each other, and Elrohir was terrified that if he turned away for too long, Elladan would disappear, claimed by this unnamed disease.

Elrohir retook the seat by his twin's bed, taking his brother's hand. With his other, he reached out and took Legolas's, offering them both a comforting squeeze that neither could return.

Please hurry, Gandalf.