Many thanks for the lovely response! I'm glad to have such support. I hope you enjoy this chapter! It introduces a character that carries over to a second LOTR piece I've been working on – he was actually invented in that earlier piece, but with the release of the Hobbit films, I thought this plot was more relevant.
-XXX-
After leaving Beriana's house, I return to the palace, heading for the infirmary. From what I've heard, most of the healers have stayed behind for the moment to finish preparing, intent on following in a few days. They're looking for hands, able bodies to aid in tending to the injured. I was just such one of those bodies.
The head healer is a gruff fellow. The famed Fortesbrawn has been the head of the royal infirmary and at the service of the kings of Greenwood for longer than nearly anyone can remember. He sizes me up when I enter, heavily brow'ed eyes scanning me from top to bottom. I humbly wait.
"Have you any experience?" he asks.
"A little. I've lived on the edge of the forest my entire life. My mother was a bit of healer, and so everyone near us came to her for help. I picked up a few things. I can sew stitches and I know of many medicinal herbs."
He nods slowly. "You're the beekeeper, aren't you? Elurín's daughter."
"Yes." I don't know if that's a good thing or a bad thing.
The elf regards me for a long minute. Nervously, I fold my hands in my lap, trying to appear as useful as possible. After a while, he asks, "Can you learn quickly on your feet?"
I nod eagerly. "Yes. I'm a fast learner."
"Very well. We'll take you on. But if we find you to be incompetent, I warn you, we shan't be sending you home," he says firmly. "No, you'll be sent to the cook's tent or the pen with the horses."
"Yes sir."
I am instructed to remain in the infirmary for the day to help with packing. After we've finished for the evening, I race to the Birchbark's. They're startled to see me, but welcome me to their dinner table. Beriana's eyes are red-rimmed, and she reaches out to hug me close. Over our dinner of rabbit stew and parsnips, I'm hard-pressed to contain my news, waiting for the right moment. When I tell them the news, the table falls silent.
"Cala," Arhiel says breathlessly. "Oh, Cala, you didn't."
"I can't simply stay here. I'm useless in the palace." I'm trying to help them understand. "I'd rather be serving Arda and the Greenwood than staying here while so many of our fellows are sent off to die. Maybe I can make a difference."
Dorith shakes his head. "You don't belong on the battlefield. War is not for a sell such as yourself."
But I do have some support. Beriana leans over to hug me again. "I'm proud of you," she says. "I've always thought you had healing hands. Please be careful."
I hug her back. "I swear, I will be as safe as possible. I didn't really have anyone else to tell," I tell the table quietly. "So, I was hoping, if something happens –"
"Oh, Cala, no," Arhiel stops me, horrified. "Don't talk like that."
"Please, just, if I don't return, take care of everything. The cottage, the bees. Pass it along."
The rest of dinner is a little less grim, but I can tell that my announcement hangs over everyone's head. I attempt to act as though nothing has changed. But everything has.
-XXX-
Signing up to be a healer, I didn't quite know what to expect – which proves to a positive thing, as had I known, I would have likely shied away from volunteering. It's not necessarily a rough job, so much as it is unpredictable. I spend the first day packing and labeling things, and once we get to camp, unpacking, organizing, setting up the medical tent and cleaning it as best I can, and bandaging the few elves who were injured on the journey to Dagorlad's campus. Several have suspicious brawl-like bruises and cuts; we find out later that Oropher took more than a few barrels of wine along to the battlefield.
"Hardly required in war, " Fortesbrawn grumbles as he sutures one fellow over his eyebrow. "It's a more effective weapon against ourselves."
On my second day in camp I find myself brewing pain relievers, sedatives, and sleeping drafts. Fortesbrawn leaves me with a small book of recipes – his "travel size" version – and the supply tent. By the end of the day I have more unknown substances splattered across my apron than I'd care to acknowledge. And that is, naturally, when I see Thranduil.
I happen to come across him in the midst of sharpening his sword. It is by some chance that I spot him cut his palm. Wordlessly, I cross the row to tents to kneel before him, casting the weapon from his hand, pulling up my apron to apply pressure. Surprised, the prince pulls back before he recognizes me.
"Caladhiel?"
I glance up briefly. "Hold still," I say, adding in a softer tone, "Please, my lord." The cut isn't too bad – fairly shallow and clean, which means it won't take much to heal.
"What are you doing here?" Thranduil is still stunned. The hand not being tended to grips my shoulder. He doesn't appear much different than he did last week, when I had watched him ride from Greenwood. A little haggard, perhaps. There are a few thin, shatter-like lines around his eyes. He wears a few pieces of armor, but not the full set. I don't blame him – it's quite warm today.
"I volunteered to work as a healer," I explain. "Come, you'll need a bandage."
"You're working with Fortesbrawn? The old badger didn't scare you off?" He rises with me, eyes never leaving mine.
"Hardly. We get on quite well."
"He's a bit strict, is he not?" The prince smiles. "I do like him."
We round a corner and the medical supply tent is ahead. I lead the way, tossing up the flap. Thranduil follows, sitting when I direct him to a crate. After scouring boxes and shelves I find what I am searching for. When I return with a roll of clean fabric and a bottle of witch hazel, I find him poking at the cut.
"Stop," I scold, pulling the offending finger away. Without warning, I lay his palm flat, pouring a bit of witch hazel upon the wound. Thranduil hisses under his breath. I ignore him, cleaning up the excess liquid and dried blood, then begin wrapping it tightly. Once finished, Thranduil claims the limb back against his chest,.
"Thank you," he says softly.
"It is no trouble. It is my job."
"You're clearly suited for it." The prince hesitates before adding, "I must be honest, I'm not entirely pleased to see you here. Greenwood is far safer, Cala."
"I wanted to serve my people," I reply stubbornly. "My people and Arda.."
He nods eagerly. "I respect that. But as someone who cares for you, I'd prefer you were leagues away, you know?"
"And I you. I would altogether wish that there was no war to be fought." I sigh. "Be careful, Prince Thranduil. And if you fail to be careful, I shall be here ready to stitch you up. Though I have no desire to do so." Smiling, I lace the fingers of his good hand with mine.
He finds the energy to smile back. "I will do my best to avoid you, then."
"See to it."
Suddenly, he leans forward. Being much taller than me, the prince's chin meets my forehead, and he lowers his mouth to press a soft kiss upon my brow, hands upon my forearms, locking me in place. Then, without another word, Thranduil strokes the length of my left cheek, then departs, leaving me alone in the supply tent.
-XXX-
"Bring water," Fortesbrawn barks over the heads of scurrying healers. "Bandages, and as much willow as can be found."
A pallet is moving towards the center tent, carried by several grim and bloody soldiers. All move aside with gasps and wide eyes. I shove through with my bowl and bandages, hurrying to the head healer's side. Once there, I too take pause, uttering back a low cry; it is the king who is being set upon the table. The king, whose armor has been slashed open, blood leaking from his half-open mouth, dirt layering every exposed inch of skin. A heavy scent of burnt flesh
Once he has been steadily placed, Fortesbrawn sets to work. First the breastplate is removed, revealing twisted and broken mail, then beneath that a shirt that may have once been white, but is now soaked with sticky red-black blood. The healer makes a quick motion for a wet cloth. Once the chest is cleaned the injury is visible – a long, brutal slash. Beyond the scarlet I can see raw muscle and bone. It rises and falls heavily, a slight wheeze. The lungs are likely filling with blood. I gasp. Fortesbrawn's expression is grim.
"I need red clover and anise," he orders. "Cala, bring me needle and silk. We'll need sutures I manage to stop this bleeding."
I nod, still in shock, and flee for the supply tent. Blindly I push through the crowd of frantic elves – though the fighting is miles away, chaos still rules the camp. I open one of the trunks, selecting a small package of curved needs and a spool of thin yellow silk thread, then hurry back to Fortesbrawn. Breathless, I set the materials upon one of the tables, then dive into the fray.
But there is so much blood – too much blood. I step away even as Fortesbrawn remains, determined. He's murmuring low words over our king, pressing white sage and anise into the wound, calling for the blood to cease. It slows, but does not stop.
For hours we labor over the king. In the end he is fairly stable – though no more than a fly on a string.
"We shall just have to see," Fortesbrawn sighs, washing his bloodied hands in a small bowl in the medicinal tent. "If he makes it through the afternoon, then we will have made half the battle. It will be fever and infection, then."
Quietly, I murmur, "What are his chances?"
The healer's eyes are dark. "I do not know. But they do not strike me as good."
I feel the heart of all those in the tent turn. Oropher is greatly beloved. No one would ever imagine that he would fall in battle. Everyone is silent, too stunned.
Fortesbrawn wearily sinks at the table, head propped upon his hands. I fetch a cup of water, pushing it towards him, then I motion for one of the young squires to bring food. When it arrives – course bread and a bean soup – I gently touch the healer, rousing him from his doze. With a sober smile, he nods, and eats.
"Go rest, Cala," he says as he stirs the soup. "There is little more we can do for the moment. You need rest."
I obey, reluctantly retiring to my tent. It's still loud outside. My fellows have not yet returned from their tasks. So I turn in, closing my eyes. In a few seconds, I am completely out.
-XXX-
It is only a few hours later that Thranduil is brought to us.
This time there is no mutual shout about camp. Fortesbrawn himself comes to my tent, eyes wide.
"The prince," is all that he can manage as he pulls me up from my cot. Dread rises in my stomach. Both Oropher and Thranduil in one day?
A cluster of guardsmen meets us at the medic's tent. They are clearly fresh from the fight – many bear a collection of scratches, bruises, light limps, among other maladies. Blood and sweat stains what is visible of their tunics, their armor is caked with mud.
He has been burned, badly, and writhes in agony on the pallet when brought to us. I nearly do not recognize him – the entire left side is burnt, leaving blackened flesh, twisted, red, angry muscles, pink tendons, and the occasional sliver of white bone. His eye is obliterated, virtually gone. All of the hair on the left side of his face is gone as well, leaving a shiny pink scalp. The upper thighs are not nearly so bad, and the chest isn't awful either – his armor served him well there. But he was stupid enough as to not wear a helmet, which leaves us with much to do.
Drawn, Fortesbrawn sets to work. Thranduil's injures are far more extensive then his father's, and in some senses, trickier. Dragon fire is not something many healers have experience with. Fortesbrawn, even in his two thousand years, has only seen it once.
First he sets about drugging the prince. The third degree burns are beyond pain now, as the nerves have been burnt away, however, the second degree burns likely hurt beyond belief. He gives Thranduil a heavy infusion of poppy, praying it keeps him from feeling what shall come next. Then, there is the task of removing the clothing – this is difficult, as what has not been burned away is melded to the skin. With the greatest of care, myself and several aids work on peeling away what remains of his tunic. The layers that come with the fabric sicken me greatly. Blood flows freely. One person is tasked with applying light pressure to these areas. I am not envious of their job.
After this, the healer turns to the eye. I cannot bear to look at what remains of Thranduil's steely blue gaze. I aid Fortesbrawn in whatever way I can, but I do not look. It takes nearly an hour, but the orb is soon whole again, though it is now misty.
"His sight will return," the healer tells us aids. "But it may be some years before it's anywhere near the strength of a normal eye."
After that it is simply a matter of making the prince comfortable. Salve is applied to the less-burnt areas. As it sinks it, the redness seems to fade, slipping away from the white flesh a though a stain cleaned from pure snowy sheets. Fortesbrawn lays damp towels on those areas that are more burnt. No amount of herbs and spells will fix this –at least, not so quickly. He administers an infusion for pain relief.
"If he lives through the night…" Fortesbrawn sighs. He sits beside the sedated prince. Exhausted, his fingers trace the rim of the cup of water I'd just fetched him "...we'll start looking at ways of healing the worst of it."
"Why not do it now?" I ask, sinking to the floor. My bones ache from standing for so long. The solid floor lends little relief.
"Because there are others dying. And if our prince cannot last the night, then that what might have saved ten lives wills be wasted on one."
I gasp. "He's our prince. Fortesbrawn, if there is a chance – "
"If there is a chance we will know by morning," the healer says strictly. "I have been given orders by both the prince and king to let the go if it is a lost cause. They wanted me to save our resources for those who need them."
"He needs them –" I gesture to the prince.
"Dragon fire is incredibly difficult to heal," Fortesbrawn says. Calmly, he sets down his cup. "If Thranduil can make it through the next couple hours, he's made half the battle."
I look at him, then. Lying on the tabling, chest slowly rising with his labored breathes. He looks peaceful, despite the immense about of pain he's likely feeling. From here I can only see the uninjured side, his smooth, clean features. As though nothing has changed.
"I'll stay with him," I say quietly. "I'll stay with Thranduil. Go to bed, Fortesbrawn."
-XXX-
It's five hours before Thranduil stirs. I've dozed off in the hard little chair beside him when a rasp wakes me.
"Cala."
It's a harsh sound, coming from dry lips. I hurry to fetch him a cup of water, then help him adjust to sit up to drink. Once he is done again, we ease him back down. I take his good hand, then brush his unscarred brow gently, murmuring soft words as I caress. "Nín ernil…."
His eyes are half-lidded, contented. He likely feels no pain now – a result of the drugs. Again, he tries to speak, swallowing several times before managing to whisper clearly.
"Cala.
"Are you in pain?"
"No, none," he answers in a dry whisper. "You and Fortesbrawn have done good work."
My hand tightens against his. I don't believe him, and make a note of giving him another dose of poppy. "I do not know that to be so, Thranduil…. Dragon fire – it is hard to heal."
"I trust you both." The sincerity in his words stabs me.
Trust us you may, but that does not mean you can be healed. My heart weeps. I fumble for my pocket mirror, a small piece of polished silver gifted to me by Beriana before I left. The back is enamel, a monarch butterfly set against a green and yellow background. She said I wouldn't see much color aside from blood. My fingers shake as I withdraw it, even those that rest against the prince's cheek.
"We did our best. And there is still more we can do. But…we cannot mend what has been so heavily touched by magic. I do not know if you shall wish to see it. Later, when you have had rest…"
"Show me," he orders me, princely tone in place. He shifts to sit. I put a hand on his shoulder quickly, steadying him. I hesitate before turning over the mirror. There is a sharp intake of breath.
I bite my lip. The way his eyes flicker across the glass…his expression is one of pure and utter horror. Taking up the mirror from me, Thranduil stares.
"I am a monster," he whispers.
"No," I choke, grabbing his good hand again, pushing aside the mirror so that it drops to the table with a soft "thud." His eyes are still wide, terrified. Frighten of his own face. I ache to stop this, to give him heart and good feeling. "No, no. You are not. You are never."
"Look at me," he says, bitterness swelling, his volume rising. "Or rather not. I am the stuff of nightmares. I am a cripple, blind –"
"You are not. You are a hero." I move to sit on the edge of the table. "Thranduil, it is not so bad. In time, you shall be able to use your arm again. Fortesbrawn has given you sight again, you shall see in time, and your can still speak."
"But shall the burns ever heal?" he hisses. "Am I ever again to feel?" His good hand squeezes mine so tightly I fear bones shall break. Despite the potency of the drugs, his weariness, and generally weakened state, the prince still has great strength. "Will I ever enjoy the feeling of breeze, sunlight? Another's skin against my own?"
I wince as his grip again tightens. Realizing what he's doing, Thranduil releases me.
"Leave me." He looks away.
"I shall not."
"I am a monster. A thing. A half-person. I do not deserve your attention, nor your care. Go to others more deserving. I am ready to die."
His words anger me. "You are my prince and I shall stay. Do not be so petty – there are many here on death's door who would easily insist that I return to you. You have a loyal people, my lord, who will miss you and who will follow you, scars nor not, beyond the edge of the earth. Do not disregard their love for your silly dramatics. You are alive and will remain so if I and they have anything to say about it."
At this, he is silenced. After a period of quiet, Thranduil opens his good hand. I slip mine back into his. We both squeeze, holding on as though utterly terrified to let go.
-XXX-
Well, that drifted quickly from fluffy to dramatic! Some of you had been asking after the dragon and Thranduil's disfigurement. I hope I delivered!
The movie doesn't establish when he encountered the dragon(s), and it's not canon within the book, so this is entirely a fabrication of my mind.
Reviews would be lovely!