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Ich dien – To Serve the Kingdom

by faust

6

The Healer

Thalonael is seldom seen running. He is the senior healer in the king's fortress, the undisputed ruler of the healing ward, one of the oldest and wisest among the wood elves—he has been in charge of tending to the royal Sindar since before the days of King Oropher. But when he is alerted that the queen's party has been spotted close to the stronghold and that, from the looks of it, a healer will be needed in the throne room as soon as the prince will have made his report, he immediately abandons the treatise he was studying and hurries through the corridors in a manner very unlike his usual dignified pace.

What spurs him to haste is not only that the queen has been exposed to the tainted woods too long already, has strained herself far beyond what the healer would ever have allowed (but, of course, she did not see fit to ask for his opinion before she went on her dangerous quest). The prince, Thalonael is informed, seems also in need of tendance, as he appears to be barely able to sit his horse.

Thalonael knows Legolas very well. He was the first to hold the precious babe after the queen gave birth to the long awaited heir of Greenwood (a miracle that, as they all were aware, would not be repeated) and he has tended to him and treated wounds sustained in the prince's constant battle against the Shadow ever since—whenever the queen allowed it or, for some time past, was too ill to do it herself.

Yes, he knows Legolas very well, knows him well enough to have no doubt that if it seems that the prince cannot remain mounted much longer, then his body will have lost the ability to stay on a horse long ago and only his stubbornness and determination are still keeping him upright. Once at home, however, he will not be able to continue. And even if his stubbornness and determination can still drive him on, Thalonael will not allow it. Reports can be made in the healing halls as well as in the throne room, and it is not as if it has not been done already in the past.

So Thalonael turns his hurried steps not towards the throne room but to the stables. From the gallery, he has a clean view into the court yard, and what he sees makes him hasten his pace even more.

Legolas slides from his horse and collapses into an untidy heap on the ground as soon as the rescue party has crossed the bridge to the stronghold and reached the stable yard. The queen, with a speed that belies her ghostly pallor, dismounts and rushes to him. She is on her knees and has her son's body pulled into her lap even before Thalonael can cry out, "No, my Lady!"

His call, of course, falls on deaf ears. By the time he reaches the queen, she is already deeply in healing trance, her face white and drawn, her body trembling like a dry leaf in the storm.

It is not advisable to forcefully drag someone out of healing trance, but the consequence of not doing it to Eryniel could easily be her death. Thalonael tears the queen's hands off her son's chest, breaks the link of healing. "Daro," he says softly. "Please, my Lady."

He soothes her as he would a hurt wildcat, careful, cautious of the danger any injured animal might pose. He expects her to lash out over his intrusion, expects anything from royal indignation to outrage—but all she does is slump into herself, almost boneless, and whisper, "Help, Thalonael, save him. It is dire."

And it is indeed dire. Legolas is even weaker than the healer has feared, although Thalonael senses traces of previous healing in the prince's compromised fëa (he refrains from casting the queen a disapproving glare, but only because his attention is fully needed for thrusting life into the battered body of her son). That Legolas has allowed even the smallest amount of restoration at all tells Thalonael more about his perilous condition than the blood that has seeped through his clothes and makeshift bandages.

There is nothing Thalonael can do out here besides sharing his vital force with Legolas, and when he has given as much as he can afford, he stands, cradling the prince's limp form in his arms so he can carry him to the healing halls where there will be athelas to clean and heal, geranium and calendula to staunch the blood flow, elderflower to reduce the fever, miruvor to restore strength, water and a clean bed; and time to chant songs of healing.

He sees Eryniel trying in vain to rise and curses the fact that he has hurried out alone—despite knowing there would be two patients rather than one—but then Galion appears in the yard, hastening to aid the queen. As he enters the hallway, Thalonael hears Eryniel stating that she will not be carried with a voice so thin but still so very much in command, but he hurries towards the healing halls without turning back again, certain that the butler will somehow support his lady there, too.

Once in his own little kingdom of herbs and healing draughts, Thalonael launches into well-practised routine. Orders are issued, assistant healers summoned, healing supplies brought and laid out. The prince is stripped and bathed, then bedded on soft white linen that soon is soiled with the evidence of injury and healing.

After all the dirt and partly dried blood is washed away, Legolas's wounds turn out to be even more terrible than they seemed at first glance. Many demand suturing, some require Thalonael to cut deeply first, for not only the surface is injured: there is mutilation deep inside; organs have been torn, blood vessels lacerated, muscles and tendons damaged. Fresh blood wells up not only where the healers have to cut, but also where already crusted wounds are washed or when the patient is carefully moved to check for as yet undiscovered injuries—indeed, everywhere he is touched either by the healers or by the soft bed on which he is lying.

Thalonael is neatly stitching, layer by layer, the muscle and skin covering his prince's abdomen when he dimly becomes aware of Galion and Eryniel entering the room. He nods at one of his assistants and sends her with a quick gesture over to the queen. Much as he would like to tend to his lady himself, Legolas needs him more. And there is nothing, absolutely nothing he can do to actually restore the queen's health beyond the usual treatment.

"Miruvor, rest," he orders nevertheless. It is meant not so much for the healer's as for the queen's ears. He will allow no more foolishness. No more reckless waste of strength where there is almost none left in her anyway.

Eryniel complies, as far as she is able. She refuses to leave the room, she refuses to be put in a bed, she refuses to take a sleeping draught. She allows a divan to be brought into the room, demands it be put where she can see her son. (For now. Later, she makes it known, it will be moved next to Legolas's bed.) She lets herself be helped out of her riding attire and into a soft, warm housecoat, and accepts a small cup of miruvor and a woollen blanket as she settles down on the divan.

There is a light touch on his shoulder, and as Thalonael glances up he sees Galion's concerned face.

"How…?" the butler whispers, a slight jerk of his head towards Legolas's prone form completing the question.

"I do not know yet." It is nothing the queen should hear, so Thalonael keeps his voice down. "It is dire," he repeats Eryniel's words from the stable yard. "There is still much work to do. The blood loss is immense, the damage extensive. I do what I can but it might not be…." He clenches his teeth. He will not say it out loud. Can not.

But then he does not need to say it anyway: there is a sudden change, Legolas's pained frown relaxes, peace settles on his features. Stillness suffuses the room. The air becomes saturated with the prince's fading fëa.

Thalonael shivers. This is it then. This is it; and there is nothing to be done. It is beyond his skills, beyond anyone's skills. There is only one service left to render now. "Get the king," he breathes. "Quickly."

But there is no need for the command as Galion is already on his way.

The healers', all the healers' hands, four sets of them, glide over Legolas's torso, as if to prevent his life force from being poured out, as if they could keep it in place or scoop it up and spoon it back into him. It is in vain, Thalonael knows that, but he has to at least postpone the inevitable, has to keep the prince here until the king has appeared, and the father has met his son in this world one last time.

Then Thalonael feels a push against his shoulder. A slender, white hand gestures the healers' away, is gently laid down in their place. The queen falls to her knees, her hands ghosting over Legolas's chest, her head bowed. She cups his face in her hands, holds him, just holds him without uttering a sound, without moving, without any outward appearance of weaving her magic; and little by little, the silence of the room is replaced by the sound of the forest, the stench of blood and gore by the fragrance of leaves and moss.

When one of the assistants shoots him a distressed look, Thalonael closes his eyes and shakes his head. He will not stop the queen, not this time, not now when her unique powers might be the only thing that can save her son's life, when her sacrifice is his only hope—and the prince's life the only one that can possibly be saved.

She shivers under the strain; her breath is laboured, her face void of any colour. But the air of death is quietly overcome by the song of leaf-green and sky-blue, of trees and water, by the notion of golden sunlight filtered through the canopy of beeches. Then Legolas heaves a deep, shuddering breath, and his chest moves up and down again rhythmically with each intake of air; tension returns to his features, and colour; and his eyelids flutter.

Eryniel's hands slide from her son's face as she goes limp. She tries to hold herself upright on the bed, but she has no strength left; her hands slip from the bed's edge, and Thalonael catches her as she begins to fall.

"It is done," he says soothingly when she struggles against him. She holds on to his arms, with more vigour than he thought she had left.

"Wait," she says.

She straightens, her green gaze captures his eyes, holds them fast for a long moment. Then it sweeps over the other healers' faces, catches their eyes, too, and fixes them for as long as each of them is able to hold it.

"You will not speak about this, none of you." Her words are just above a whisper, but the authority in them is unmistakable. "Neither to Legolas nor to the king."

"Very well, my Lady," Thalonael says, including all present in the agreement. He does not need their consent—they all know it is better this way, and neither of them wants the queen's gift tainted. There was nothing else to be done, and neither Legolas nor Thranduil ought to feel guilty about it.

They help the now-compliant queen back to her seat on the divan, then continue the painstaking work of healing a patient who, a mere blink ago, should have passed beyond healing. More stitches are administered; poultices and linen pads sutured with healing tonics are laid over minor cuts and already sutured injuries, salves are spread on abrasions; clean bandages are applied.

The king arrives as Thalonael dabs at some tiny drops of blood that have welled up through the stitches with which he has just closed a particularly deep gash.

"All will be well," Thalonael answers the question he knows the king will not ask.

Thranduil nods. His gaze flickers to Legolas—and is locked there. He cannot fully keep the horror out of his face as he takes in the too-still form of his son, the numerous bandages, the blood and bruises, the shallow breathing, the pasty pallor, the unnatural limpness; and he cannot completely hide the roughness in his voice when he finally speaks. "Are you certain of that?"

"I am." Thalonael almost chokes on the 'now' that wants to come out—but he will not break his promise to the queen. Nor does Thranduil have to know how close he came to losing his only child.

"He will regain complete health, melleth. This I know."

Eryniel's affirmation, spoken in a quiet yet confident voice, comforts Thranduil more than any word from the healer could. "Very well," he says. "Then I shall rest assured." The king sinks down on to the divan on which his wife is resting. He takes her hand. "Are you well, bereth-nín? Your hand is cold."

"I am merely exhausted, no more than can be expected."

Thalonael feels certain that the king recognises the equivocation, but apparently decides not to take his wife to task for it. She does look fatigued beyond endurance; it will not do her any good to exhaust her further by chiding her. The healer turns his attention back to his patient, and as he finds that most of the work is done, he sends his assistants away. There are only some minor wounds left to be treated that normally would not require the senior healer's expertise, but Thalonael is sure the king and queen will prefer his presence over any other's. He tries to be quick and unobtrusive, as he wants to give them as much privacy as possible. He cannot help overhearing the royal couple's low conversation, though.

"What has happened, Eryniel? Where did you find him?"

"He had ridden far into the goblin's land. He was fighting a horde of yrch when we reached him."

"I feared he would not shirk from confrontation, even if the odds were against him. He could not simply let them go, could he? He must have known he would not come out of it unscathed. I thought I taught him better than to take unnecessary risks."

"I do not know what induced him to do so. Mayhap he will enlighten you when he wakes." The queen sighs. "Be not too harsh with him, melleth-nìn, when you question him. He did not mean to be unreasonable, of that I am certain."

"He did not heed my orders."

"I am sure he did not intend to defy you. But circumstances might have required it."

There is a noise coming from the king that could almost be an ungraceful "hrmpf". But surely, Thalonael must have misheard.

The queen laughs quietly. "Be not too severe with him, meleth. He did fight well. You would have been proud of your son, aran-nín. He was magnificent."

"He obviously fought not well enough to avoid a multitude of injuries being inflicted on him."

The queen's voice rises a notch, and there is a certain sharpness to it as she replies, "You will not insinuate such when you speak to Legolas. He held his own against dozens of enemies, and he came out of it the victor. I do not know if you could have been triumphant, had you been in his stead, Thranduil."

Thalonael cringes, as, undoubtedly, does Thranduil. The queen's protectiveness towards her son is legendary—it is a well-adhered to rule that you shall not speak ill of Legolas within the hearing of her highness—as is the warning that is encoded in her use of the king's given name. It is rare for her to do such, and usually only when she is quite vexed.

But the King of the Woodland Realm is an experienced negotiator, a shrewd and cunning diplomat—and he knows a thing or two about diversion.

"You did not try and heal him, did you, Eryniel?" He puts emphasis on the queen's given name, too, but it is not half as effective as her stress on his.

"I tried after the fight, but he would not let me," she admits but evades mentioning later…events.

"You know you are not supposed to exhaust your strength."

"He almost did not make it to the stronghold. He needed healing, but he preferred to suffer for the sake of keeping me hale. He should not have—"

"He should have. Obviously, he has more sense than you. I will tell him he did well."

There is a pause; Thalonael hears rustling, the sound of fabric brushing on fabric, the king's low voice, "here, have a sip," and then nothing for a while. He does not need to turn around to know that the king will have slipped closer to his wife, that he will have taken her in his arms, and that she will be resting at his chest.

The king and queen usually do not display their affection so openly. It does not fit the image of himself that Thranduil prefers to present to his subjects, and elves are discreet anyway—the royal Sindar even more so than the Silvan elves. And yet, the sight of the king gathering his wife in his arms is not unfamiliar to the healer. Thranduil has held her through many troubled, painful nights while the healers hovered above them or counselled in hushed voices in a far corner.

Thalonael does not know how many more nights the queen will live to see, how many more nights the king will be given to hold her, and so he busies himself with checking already checked bandages and cleaning already cleaned scratches so as not to interrupt the couple's intimacy.

"He is so much like you," he hears the king eventually blurt.

Oh, how many times has he heard him say that? A thousand times or more. Thalonael keeps his head low and smiles. It is not the words alone that make him grin. It is the tone in which they are uttered: there is annoyance in it, pride and joy, exasperation, indignation and silent admiration.

The king is speaking the truth, of course. Whilst most people believe Legolas to be truly his mother's son in looks and his father's in demeanour, Thalonael, along with the prince's parents, knows it to be the other way round. Indeed, Legolas has inherited the queen's finely chiselled facial structure, but his colouring favours his father's: he has Thranduil's dark brows and piercing blue eyes; and his hair is the same shade of almost silvery blonde. And even though he tries so very hard to follow the king's example by appearing cold and distant to everyone outside the circle of family and close friends, the hard surface he displays cannot fully hide his compassionate heart. His carelessness in matters of courteous conduct mirrors his mother's, as does his curiosity for the things beyond, his wonder in everything new, and his deep bond with the forest and its creatures.

The only difference between mother and son is that where Eryniel hides a strong will beneath her soft appearance, Legolas hides a tender and joyful heart under his cold countenance.

"Is he?" Eryniel laughs. "So this all is my fault again?"

"It is always your fault, my love. Because the king is never to blame."

Thalonael cannot suppress a chuckle. And regrets it instantly.

"Are you not finished, Healer?" he hears the king's voice close to his ear.

As so often, he marvels about Thranduil's ability to move so fast and so quietly. "I am," he says. "Almost. Just this one little…" He hastily rubs ointment on a random bruise. "There. That was the last." He bows his head. "By your leave, my Lord…"

The king nods and waves his hand impatiently, and Thalonael turns and leaves the room with as much dignity as he can muster. The last thing he hears is the queen's voice demanding, "I would have my seat moved to Legolas's bed now."

He almost turns back—but then he has been dismissed, has he not?

The king will find a way to comply with his queen's wishes. Thalonael is quite positive about that.

Sindarin, just in case...

daro = stop (imp.)
fëa = soul, spirit
athelas = kingsfoil
miruvor = restorative drink
meleth = love
bereth-nín = my queen
orch/pl. yrch = orc = goblin
aran-nìn = my king