Thank you for trying this story, this chapter. I hope it doesn't disappoint. If it does, please do not hesitate to tell me why, for I strive to improve my writing, always.

Ich dien – To Serve the Kingdom

by faust

8

The Father

The King of the Woodland has never been one to sit idly. He may not be moving as he watches the slow rise and fall of his son's chest, one hand still holding his wife's, the other resting on Legolas's arm, his back regally straight and upright; but the stillness is only of the limbs. His mind runs relentlessly.

The dwarves…they did not enter his realm without a reason. Greedy, cunning creatures… They lied to him, mocked his sagacity. They planned…something…. But what? Their presence attracted the yrch, creatures of the Necromancer…. What other evil will it bring forth?

And what caused Tauriel to be so…enamoured of the dwarves?

He will have to send someone to the men of Laketown. Galion, mayhap. The men need to be informed of his…discontent. Never again shall they see fit to accommodate anyone who cowers away from Thranduil's righteous wrath.

Perhaps Galion is not the right choice for that. Someone of high rank and imposing demeanour might serve better. Legolas.

Legolas…he seems so much better already. His breathing is regular, not so laboured anymore, his colour almost normal, his skin warm and dry, his features relaxed. In fact, he appears to have healed much more than could be expected in so short a time. Thalonael must have worked a small wonder. Thranduil will bear in mind to commend the healer on his exceptional performance, to present him with an adequate remuneration. As if there were enough gemstones in all of Arda to properly express his gratitude.

If it is indeed Thalonael's mastery alone that has brought this swift change in Legolas's condition.

Eryniel's hand is still too cold. But surely, she has not…. No. You did not try and heal him, did you, Eryniel? I tried after the fight, but he would not let me. He will question Legolas about that. He does not think Eryniel would lie to him, not outright, but she is a master of speaking around crucial facts if she deems it favourable. (It is an irritating habit of which Thranduil can also be found guilty; so perhaps he deserves to be subjected to that.) Legolas, the Valar be thanked, will give short, clear, and honest but complete answers, as becomes a commander of the king's guards.

As it becomes a commander of the king's guards. There is another commander of his guards whom Thranduil used to think of as someone who also knew to behave as it became her, and who then so tremendously disappointed him. Forsooth, Tauriel did not injure his son, Eryniel is right about that. But had she not— Yes, despite his wife's warning he is back to that reasoning. He cannot simply ignore the fact that Tauriel betrayed his trust, failed his realm, abandoned his son. And had she not let Legolas down, had she kept him from his foolish pursuit of the already fleeing yrch (as would have been her duty), or had she at least joined him in that hazard, he certainly would not have suffered injuries so severe, and Eryniel would not—

A soft gasp interrupts his rambling thoughts. As he shifts his gaze from Legolas's chest to his face, he finds clouded blue eyes staring back at him.

He squeezes his son's arm. "Well, there you are back with us, iôn-nín."

Legolas blinks a few times to clear his sight. Focusses on his father. Lets his eyes wander to the left, to the right. Frowns. "Naneth," he rasps, and then he convulses with a hacking cough.

"Shh, do not speak yet. Your mother is resting right next to you." Thranduil slides one hand under Legolas's head and lifts him up a little so that he can feed him honeyed water. Some trickles down his chin, and Legolas raises a hand to brush the moisture away. He feebly paws at the glass, but Thranduil will have none of it. "Daro," he says. "Let me do this for you."

Legolas manages a smile around the brim of the glass, and even if it is mostly obscured, Thranduil can see that it is of the long-suffering kind.

"Indulge me," the kingly father says wryly; and his son's smile grows wider.

After he has obediently emptied almost half the glass, Legolas endures a cloth dabbing at his chin, a hand testing his temperature on his brow, a strong arm holding him upright and turning him so he can see his naneth. But when Thranduil gently lays him down, and pulls his blanket back up, he protests and insists he be helped to sit up again. It is less struggle than Thranduil would have expected, and more than Legolas's pride would prefer, if his exasperated exclamations are an indicator; but eventually he sits propped up, a thick pillow cushioning his back against the headboard.

He is breathing audibly, the only sign of exhaustion he is unable to conceal, and his gaze slips to his right, where Eryniel rests.

"I did not let her heal me," he says the most important thing without even being asked.

"I know. You did well, iôn-nín."Thranduil cannot supress a smile. Clear, honest, complete; to the point. As expected. A true warrior, his son, in every aspect.

A true warrior in every aspect, yes: honest and valiant, deadly skilled in the arts of fighting, cunning and far-seeing—and at times stupidly too much focused on the annihilation of the enemy and too little on self-preservation. A leader of warriors, Thranduil still has to ingrain into his son, a leader knows when it is time to retreat; a leader does not only look after those whom he leads but also after himself.

He did not mean to be unreasonable, he hears Eryniel's voice in his head. Be not too harsh with him when you question him.

Not too harsh… Thranduil studies his son. His cheeks are flushed, his breaths a little laboured, his lips tightly pressed on another. There are fine lines of pain on his brow and around his mouth. But his eyes are still clear and alert; and mayhap now is a better time than ever.

Be not too harsh with him. He will not. Not while Legolas is in pain. Not while he still has to heal.

Yes, now is a better time than any other.

"Well," Thranduil says without preamble. He can be to the point, too. "Would you care to tell me why I should not arraign my son for insubordination?"

Legolas stares blankly at him.

"You do remember I ordered that no-one leave the kingdom?"

"Yes."

"No-one. What made you think that would not include you?"

"Adar…"

Thranduil raises an eyebrow. Legolas should know better.

"My Lord, I did not intend to leave the realm. I merely wished to inform Captain Tauriel about the new orders."

That is…intriguing. A new tactic, exactly the brand of tampering-the-facts his mother would deploy. This shall be interesting. Thranduil inclines his head. He speaks very softly—Legolas will know to read it correctly and heed the unspoken warning. "Then what happened to make you change your plans?"

His son's narration of the events is short, clear, and in agreement with Tauriel's version. When asked, he delivers a sound explanation for…bending his king's orders when he decided to follow her to Laketown.

"I needed to keep her safe," he says. "I could not let her fight a band of yrch on her own."

Apparently, Legolas's desire to protect anyone is significantly more distinct than Thranduil already assumed. He even feels compelled to protect Tauriel, an accomplished, well-practised warrior—who, as a matter of fact, is tasked with protecting him.

Thranduil does not point out that Legolas would have done better to use his newly found silver tongue to persuade Tauriel to return to the stronghold, thus effectively protecting both her and him.

"You are very fond of Tauriel," he carefully prods instead.

Legolas frowns. "Of course I am. She is the closest to a sibling that I have."

Oh.

Ah, well. That…is a relief.

Thranduil bestows Legolas with a scrutinising look. He makes sure to put some ice into it—it is as much of a glare as he thinks his son can handle in his current condition. Legolas holds his gaze, his face is guileless.

Yes, definitely a relief.

"So you left the kingdom to protect Tauriel and the men of Laketown," the king eventually sums Legolas's report up. "After you defeated the yrch—and in passing protected the naugrim…" Thranduil is pleased to see that Legolas has the good grace to wince at that statement, "…you went after the fleeing goblins to…?"

"Make certain they did not turn against the citizens."

"Very well." Thranduil forms a triangle with his hands, the tips of his fingers rhythmically tapping at each other. "Then, in the streets, you went into combat with their leader, who escaped when you were assaulted by a group of his underlings…"

Legolas nods.

"…against which you eventually prevailed, too."

"Yes."

"Then you noticed the leader had summoned the remaining yrch, and they were fleeing the town."

"Yes."

For a brief moment Thranduil rests his brow against his steepled fingers. "Why, pray tell," he says with only the hint of a groan as he lifts his face to look at his fool of a son, "did you not simply let the goblins go? Why in Arda did you follow them?"

Legolas looks at him as if he does not comprehend the question. Or as if he does not have an answer. "I needed to make sure they would not come back," he finally offers. "To find their lair and…"

"Alone?"

Legolas looks down. He sighs.

He must feel very poorly, Thranduil realises, and he almost breaks off the interrogation, but then Legolas admits softly, "He had drawn blood. I was…enraged. Furious."

"You followed them although you already were injured?"

"I was not injured."

"You bled. How can you not have been injured if you bled?" Thranduil reaches out to feel his son's brow. Perhaps he is feverish?

"I..." Legolas twists his head out of Thranduil's touch. His gaze goes down to his hands again; he inspects them as if they were the most fascinating thing as he mumbles, "'Twas only my…"

"Your…?"

"My nose."

Thranduil stares. "Your nose. You were furious and endangered your life because the orch bloodied your nose?"

Legolas casts him a sheepish glance. "At the time," he says with a small smile, "it made sense."

Oh, iôn-nín. What a fine example of a royal Sinda you make. Thranduil shakes his head. He glances at Eryniel, who is still deep in reverie. He is very glad she has not witnessed this conversation, for she surely would have a few words to say about misplaced pride and about how the acorn does not fall far from the trunk.

As he looks back at Legolas, he sees his son trembling under the strain of remaining upright. His face has taken on a ghostly pallor, and the pain lines around his mouth are more pronounced than before. Clearly, he has reached the end of his endurance.

The fact that Legolas does not put up any resistance as his father manoeuvres him back to lie down, painfully confirms Thranduil's assessment. That, the clamminess of his skin, and the rapid pace of his heart.

"I do not understand why she is so infatuated with the dwarves," Legolas mumbles between raspy breaths as he slowly sinks into sleep. "The dwarves…they…brought forth the yrch…will…unleash…flames…war…"

"The dwarves are unimportant. They will meet their fate soon." Thranduil brushes over his son's hair. "Shh, sleep now, penneth. Be at peace. Heal."

And whatever darkness will be unleashed, we will fight, he thinks as he rises to summon Thalonael so he can tend to Legolas and make him rest more comfortably.

The Shadow will not worst us. We shall prevail.

ooOoo

Sindarin, just in case...

nana/ naneth = mama/ mother
ada/ adar = papa/ father
orch/pl. yrch = orc = goblin
naug/pl. naugrim = dwarf
penneth = young one