Chapter Eleven
"Did you ever imagine a closer alliance with Mirkwood?" Galadriel asked as she and Elrond stood in companionable silence on opposite ends of his study.
He came to join her at the window and saw Arwen and Legolas hand-in-hand as they walked over the rocks. Elrond silently praised his daughter for her thought to take Legolas to the springs; he could only wonder and marvel at how she had convinced him to leave his father's side.
"I am certain it's only sisterly concern," Elrond said. "Arwen has truly shown her strength these past few days. She's worried about Legolas since the first day. And what she did for Thranduil may have saved his life."
Elrond looked over at Galadriel and saw a rare smile of pride on her face. Soon it faded, taken over again by grave contemplation.
"It was not Nazgûl that attacked them. Only a legion of orcs led by their own kind," Galadriel said.
"Then how could Thranduil be so affected?"
"The weapon was edged with poison created from some property of the wraiths. I know not how."
"I have never heard of such a thing."
"Nor I." Galadriel took a sip from the wine glass she balanced between her hands.
The relief that it was not the return of Nazgûl that had wrought this tragedy was overwhelmed by the knowledge that orcs could wield the power of wraiths in their hands. The devastation dealt by only nine had been anguish enough—now there could be hundreds, thousands.
"How do you know this?" Elrond asked.
"I saw through Aradess," Galadriel said. She took another sip.
"You know what happened that day in Mirkwood?"
"The truth belongs to Thranduil, if he survives, and Legolas."
They lapsed into another silence. Minutes later, they saw Arwen cross back over the rocky bank of the Bruinen by herself. Elrond's reflex was to go and meet her, but he stopped himself. She had proven her wisdom more than once and did not need her father's supervision.
"This has taken a toll on Celebrian," Galadriel said softly.
"Her grief is for both the dead and the living," Elrond replied. He had visited her in their chambers while she was lying down, but she had been too deep in her rest to talk. "This has all laid heavily on her pure heart."
"You have taken little rest for yourself, Elrond," Galadriel said, turning her gaze to him. "Let me take your watch."
Elrond could not say if it was truly his exhaustion or the power of Galadriel's suggestions that compelled him to bed. Celebrian was still where she had been hours ago, curled up in her blankets, her hair corded over one shoulder. He lay down beside her and wrapped his arms around her. She twined her fingers through his and sighed.
"How is my lady this winter evening?" he whispered against her ear.
"Cold," she replied.
He held her tighter.
Freshly washed and dressed, Legolas felt invigorated enough to sit up at his father's bedside for the whole of the next day. He ate a little and talked with the visitors who came through—Elrond, who inspected his father, and Celebrian, Elladen, and Arwen, who inspected Legolas himself. But most of Legolas' words were for his father when they were finally alone, as the sun began to fall.
"Ada, I'm begging you… please open your eyes. I know it hurts with Naneth… dead… but I can't do this. Ada, I'm not strong enough to do this. You raised me to be harder than that, I know. I'm sorry. But I can't… I can't lose my family and go back to Mirkwood. Your people will be without a king, Ada. I've never felt less of a prince than now. So if you don't wake up for me, wake up for them."
Whenever Legolas thought himself past tears he felt his eyes begin to burn again. He dashed them away with one hand, resolved not to have his father wake up to find him crying.
"Ada… Aran-nín… please. Open your eyes."
Legolas made his pleas hour after hour into the night. As the darkness drew on, Legolas' own words took insidious root in his heart. If his father was not going to wake up, Legolas was going to run. Away from Elrond and Celebrian and their parental protectiveness, away from Galadriel, who could see into the darkest parts of him, away from Arwen's kindness. He could not look into another pitying face, could not stand the close, cloying air of the sickroom for another day.
The notion of sitting there any longer became a colossal task. Legolas twitched and writhed in that chair as if it were an instrument of torture, but he never let go of his father's hand. His father's cold, scarred hand.
"I' maer gwaew, i' forn gwaew," Legolas sang softly. The words conjured a vision of his mother sitting with him when he was small, or comforting him even when he was grown, and his voice broke. "Lind trî eryn. I' maer êl, i' forn êl, lind trî menel. Linnon—"
His father's brow creased. His hand twitched hard to grasp Legolas' own.
"Ada!" Legolas moved to sit on the edge of the bed. He gathered his father's hand in both of his and held it to his heart.
Thranduil drew a heavy breath and grimaced in pain. "Aradess…"
"It's me, Ada. Come back."
Both eyes opened, but only one was the blue Legolas knew. The other was a blind milky orb glowing in the burnt flesh of the left side of his father's face.
"Legolas?"
Legolas instantly broke his own vow and started to cry. He felt his heart shudder back to life beneath his and his father's gathered hands.
"You must go," Thranduil said. His urgency seemed almost enough to make him faint. He opened his hand against Legolas' chest and pushed him away. "Run, Legolas… they're coming!"
Legolas held tight to his father's hand. "We're in Imladris, Ada. You're safe now. Lord Elrond!"
Thranduil cried out and twisted in pain on the bed, each collection of scars catching the sliver of moonlight shining through the window. Dragon-fire, the battlefield, morgul blades.
As Elrond swept through the door, he grabbed something from the worktable and did not miss a step rushing over to the bed. Whatever was in the vial, he tipped it down Thranduil's throat in three doses. Now Thranduil gripped Legolas' hand as if he were falling and his eyes drew closed again.
"No!" Legolas cried.
"It's all right," Elrond said. "It was just for the pain."
It was the longest moment Legolas had known this whole restless night before Thranduil opened his eyes again.
"Thranduil, you came to Imladris, do you remember?" Elrond asked gently.
"My wife… where is she?"
Elrond laid a hand on Legolas' shoulder as if in apology for saying it so frankly. "Aradess is dead, Thranduil. I'm so sorry."
"No!" Thranduil writhed as the words worked through his mind to his heart.
"There was an attack in Mirkwood and you were both severely injured—"
"Why save my life if you could not save hers!" Thranduil's bandaged hand weakly grabbed at Elrond's collar. "It cannot be…"
"Thranduil, Legolas is—"
Legolas felt the weight of his father's singular gaze land on him, burning with anger, brimming with tears.
"Get out," Thranduil said. "Get out!"
Elrond squeezed Legolas' shoulder and nodded for him to obey.
His father's screams followed Legolas out of the room, echoed in his heart as he made his way to the stables.