CHAPTER 30. ELVISH HEALING
Aragorn's legs carried him up and out of the dungeons in so little a time that the origins of his nickname Strider were in no question. He considered slowing when he reached the entrance to the infirmary wing, so as not to startle his Elven guests by his ungainly entrance, but decided against it - he had earned the right to some agitation.
Besides, he reasoned, what is the use in being a king if you cannot act rashly on occasion?
When he neared the doors to the infirmary, he found them shut and guarded by Faramir; the man must have guessed that Aragorn would react hastily to the news.
"Aragorn, steady yourself. You cannot burst in on them like a wild animal – "
"Of course I can." he replied, going to push past the steward with the expectation that he would step aside. He did not.
"No, my lord!" Faramir protested firmly, and Aragorn's eyebrows lifted with surprise as he grabbed onto his sleeve, tugging him away from the doorway.
The king tried not to sound like a whining child as he replied: "Why ever is that?"
"Because they are working on him very busily, and though I am no expert in the ways of their healing, I believe it would be unwise to disrupt them. And also…" Faramir cleared his throat. "Well, you shall see. You look less like a madman now, at any rate; you may enter."
Aragorn glanced sideways perplexedly as the steward stepped aside. He placed a palm to the carved wood of the door, and gently pushed it open.
Immediately his eyes sought the curtains surrounding Legolas' bed, but found that they had been removed. Yet, his friend was still barred from view, not by fabric but a small crowd of tall, slender figures, busily shifting and murmuring amongst themselves.
Suddenly Aragorn's heart leapt; amidst the sea of dark chestnut hair gleamed a patch of silver-blond that he recognized immediately. The king strode forwards excitedly, freezing a moment later as the figure turned to face him, piercing him with brilliant blue eyes that were both familiar and utterly foreign.
"Le suilon, Elessar." he enunciated coolly. "I greet you."
"Lord Thranduil." Aragorn replied breathily, bowing his head in formal greeting. "It is an honor to make your acquaintance at last."
The King of Mirkwood surveyed the King of Gondor, his gaze piercing like shards of ice. Aragorn had been wrong; Thranduil's eyes were not at all like his son's. Legolas' eyes were bright and clear, and shone with mirth and with sorrow, and also with kindness. His father's, on the other hand, were sharp and cold, the freezing blue of a tumultuous wintery sea. He felt in their glare such fierce, unconcealed blame that he could all but hear the Elf-king's voice in his head, shouting until hoarseness.
This is your fault. You are the reason that my son is in this state. You are the one who did this to him.
But Thranduil did not shout, merely stared at him for a moment longer before breaking the glare with a dispassionate blink.
"I merely wish that we were meeting under different circumstances." he stated austerely.
"How is he?" Aragorn queried earnestly, watching the busy movement by his bedside.
"He is… very ill." Thranduil answered, for the first time an element vulnerability peeking through his cold façade as he turned to face in his son's direction with a look of forlorn distress. "You were right to summon us; no Man would be capable of healing wounds such as his."
Aragorn looked at his face but detected no air of insult in the remark – he had merely been stating a fact.
"My healers wish to speak with you." the Elf-king added, gesturing towards them.
"Will you not come also?" Aragorn queried, frowning slightly.
"I would rather not." Thranduil answered immediately, his face blanching a little. He understood Aragorn's thoughts when he raised his brows, and then added, "No, I am not always such a coward, but you must understand – he is my son. To see him like that is… the worst torture imaginable."
The tall figure shivered almost imperceptibly, in such a way that made him seem minuscule, and it dawned on Aragorn just how fragile even this fearsome, ancient creature was. He could see, in his mind's eye, the shoulders, sore from carrying guilt, the knees bruised from falling to the ground, the hands heavy and knuckles bruised from trying to fight. All at once the wall of indifference and invulnerability crumbled, leaving this creature standing in the rubble – in the end, no more than a father grieving for his son.
Aragorn bowed his head to respectfully take his leave, the king's mere presence infecting him with his sorrow. He hastened to the bedside at once, where four or five Elven healers worked busily, tenderly rebinding wounds or mixing draughts, murmuring amongst themselves in hasty Sindarin that flowed like a river.
"Are you Elessar?" one of the Elf-women asked, glancing up from her work. He nodded briefly. "If you would, it would aid us greatly if you could answer a few questions for us."
"Of course, of course. What do you need to know?"
"To your knowledge, my lord, were the prince's ribs broken?"
Aragorn resisted the urge to wince. "Yes. Why?"
"Because," another healer interjected, leaning a leaf-shaped ear near to Legolas' chest. "We believe there is blood in his lungs. Can you not hear it?"
Aragorn could not, for his ears were not as keen as their kindred, but he could almost imagine the liquid gurgle, the desperate, hissing bids for breath…
He shook his head furiously to rid himself of the idea, and watched on as the healers continued their work. One of the Elf-women on the opposite side of his bed held a bowl to his lips and gently poured the liquid it contained into his partially open mouth; almost at once he began to splutter, only slightly at first, but with increasing ferocity.
"What is it that you have given him?" Aragorn asked sharply, horrified by the draught's response. "He is too poorly to be shaken like this, you must make it stop!"
"My lord, that is the herb's purpose." one of the healers answered, with all the patience of his people. "Did you not hear us say that there is blood in his lungs? It must be removed, else he will drown in it."
"Removed?" Aragorn queried, but a moment later it was made clear as Legolas lurched sideways, coughing violently. The She-elf neatly swiped up another bowl and tucked it under his chin. When she removed it a moment later, when the hacking coughs had subsided, he saw that it was stained with crimson.
Of course, Aragorn thought, though somewhat repulsed by the crudeness of the method. There is only one way for blood to be removed from inside the lungs, after all. Coughing it up.
The healer seized a cloth and dabbed at Legolas' stained lips to remove the scarlet, glancing up to catch Aragorn's discernibly horrified expression. She responded with a look of gentle pity, and murmured a few words to one of her companions. Not beyond his hearing, he caught half of a phrase of Sindarin – 'he will need to be rid of more in a few moments' – before she passed over the bloody bowl and cloth, and strode over to join Aragorn a few paces from the bedside.
"I am sorry, my lord." the Elf-woman murmured softly, head bowed. "You must think our methods so painfully crude. I assure you, were there any other way to heal him, I would do it. It pains me also, to see him in such a state."
Aragorn glanced down at her with curiosity. She had none of the usual stature of her people – indeed, she barely reached his chin in height – but it certainly seemed to him that she had all their heart. She stared transfixed at the bed and yet truly saw nothing, evidently in another world, consumed by her thoughts.
"What is your name?" Aragorn asked gently.
She glanced up at him with deep blue eyes fringed with gold; they were wide like a child's, and laden with not only compassion, but also anguish. "My name? Miluiel, my lord."
"Did you – I mean, do you know Legolas?" he amended.
She nodded and tucked a strand of oaky hair behind her softly pointed ear. "Oh yes, my lord. I have healed the prince many a time – since we were both scarcely more than Elflings, truly."
"I do not mean to pry, and perhaps it is merely foolishness on my part, but the way in which you tend to him…" Aragorn trailed off, unsure of how to phrase his next statement – he decided to simply be upfront. "Well, it seems to me as though you were once friends. Am I not correct?"
She laughed briefly, the sound melodious, like the bubbling of a forest stream. "You are quite correct, my lord – "
"Aragorn, please." he interjected unconsciously.
Miluiel raised her eyebrows slightly, no doubt surprised at being permitted to so casually converse with him. On proper deliberation, it occurred to him her experiences with kings would be immensely different – he thought of the wisened formality that even he had encountered with Thranduil, and almost winced at the starkness of difference between them as rulers.
"Well, Aragorn, you are undoubtedly perceptive. Friends we were, many passings of the spring ago." she admitted, her cheeks reddening a little at the confession, as though she had said something improper in discussing a prince's private life without his consent. "We were children together. There were never many Elflings to be found around the halls where we were both raised, and so in a sense, we were friends by sheer luck – had there been any other choice, I am sure Legolas should have been able to do much better than I. He always did have a strong heart."
She laughed lightly, her natural modesty endearing her to him in a way that her kindred and their coldness seldom did, before adding:
"Though in truth, I am not sure that 'friend' is entirely the right word – with the amount of skinned knees and bruises I have encountered, I feel more obliged to use the term 'mother'. He would ask me to bandage his cuts for him when he knew they would earn a scolding from the palace healers – and Eru forbid his father, should he find out!"
Aragorn grinned widely at the idea of an ungainly Elfling version of Legolas, hastening back home trailing mud and twigs, and with scratches and marks all up his arms and legs from bounding about the forest.
"Was he a clumsy child?" he asked playfully.
"Clumsy? Oh no, he was as agile in youth as ever in adulthood. I was always the clumsiest of the pair – though not when it comes to healing, by lucky chance." she added quickly. "His agility was part of the reason why he was so revered in the Woodland Guard; that, and his nature, of course. There will be great sorrow when news of his ailment reaches our people's ears – to use the word 'beloved' would be a gross understatement."
The king smiled, and then the expression faded from his face as her words sank in. This Elf-woman had been a friend of Legolas' since he was a child, meaning she had known him for hundreds of years before Aragorn was even born. Without question there were more Elves like her – childhood friends, comrades that Legolas had served beside, perhaps even family beyond Thranduil that Aragorn knew not of. Legolas had always been, if not secretive, quiet, regarding his personal affairs, and so the thought had never entered his mind that there was an entire legion of people who loved and cherished him just Aragorn himself did.
It had been fearfully egocentric, he thought, to think that only he had observed Legolas' merriness and compassion and fearlessness. As a part of the Fellowship, he had touched the lives of every type of people imaginable - Men of Rohan and Gondor, Elves of every realm, Hobbits of the Shire, and even Dwarves, he supposed. Now Miluiel had reminded him that the whole of Mirkwood knew his good heart also.
And to think that I had never even considered that anyone but myself might mourn his absence. For Eru's sake, there is a whole life of his that I know naught of! Aragorn thought, frowning slightly. More than just a single life, in fact – many lifetimes, by the measure of Men. A dozen lifetimes' worth of friends before I stumbled along.
A dozen lifetimes' worth of mourners, should matters turn yet more ill.
"Aragorn, are you well?" Miluiel queried, alight with concern at the blank look that had appeared on his face.
"I have a question that I want answered, in truth." Aragorn responded slowly, drawing himself back to meet her eye. "Will you be able to heal him?"
"In truth?" she repeated, shaking her head slightly. "I… I do not know."
Her gaze dropped shamefully.
"I am sorry that I cannot give you a satisfactory answer, but I simply do not possess one. So much depends on how he reacts to the treatment, and how poorly his internal wounds might be. The only thing of which I am sure," she said, her cheeks flushed hotly. "Is that he will fight like twenty armies if it means that he can spend another single day beneath the forest boughs. That is all I know for certain."