Skin white as snow, lips red as blood, hair black as ebony
-2-
Thranduil suppressed a grimace as his long fingers lifted the cloth that covered Bard's wound and his eyes rested on the man's bare stomach.
He felt Sigrid's gaze fixed on him and refused to betray himself before opening his mouth.
The wound was neither clean nor neat. The weapon used had cut deep into the flesh and appeared to have hit internal organs. The contours of the wound were swollen and an unpleasant odor emanated from it.
Orc swords were notorious for not being of high quality. They were rudimentary, massive and their blades were only hastily forged metal, without the slightest finesse. When they hurt, they caused much more severe damage than a weapon of elven origin, for example. The swords of Men and Elves cut with precision and the pain caused by the injury, even if it was fatal, did not last more than a few seconds – even less if the hand wielding the weapon was experienced. It was quite the opposite with the swords of the Orcs.
Thranduil addressed the healer who had taken part in the convoy and asked him to explain to him in detail every move he had performed as soon as King Bard had been entrusted to him. He listened patiently, shaking his head occasionally as he continued his inspection with his fingertips and his eyes. He observed the beginning of a necrosis at the level of the cutaneous tissues in addition to the generalized infection, which had won the body lying on the bed.
His eyes fell on the injured man's face. Bard was unconscious. His eyes were shut, his skin paler than the skin of his eldest daughter, and deep purplish circles creased his face.
Thranduil placed the palm of his hand on Bard's forehead. He was burning with fever.
The crease that crept and lingered in the skin of his arm when he pinched it informed him that Bard was severely dehydrated.
If he were to save the King of Dale, he would have to be quick and efficient.
"King Thranduil?" Sigrid asked.
She was on the other side of the bed, her two hands entwined with her father's.
Thranduil focused his attention on her and chose his words carefully so as not to rush her but not wanting to hide the truth from her nevertheless.
"Despite the care provided by your healer, the wound is not healthy. The weapon that hit your father must have been coated in poison, and that poison spread throughout his body. King Bard lacks the defenses to fight off such an infection."
"Which means?" Sigrid said and her voice was clearly shaking.
Thranduil saw the healer beside her throw an arm around her shoulders in a gesture of support.
"In other words, your father is between life and death as we speak. His temperature is too high, he is completely dehydrated and he remains unconscious. My healers will take care of lowering his fever, hydrating him and disinfecting the wound again. For my part, I need to consult certain resources in order to study the possibilities available to me to help King Bard."
A simple look from the king of Greenwood set the Elven healers in motion, as they were waiting at the foot of the bed, a man and a woman, both tall, slender and with long, silky chestnut hair.
"As hard as it is to hear, I would like you to leave the room, Princess Sigrid. I will only allow the presence of my healers to limit the risk of a supplementary infection until further notice."
The Elf saw a flash of anger crossing for a second the young woman's eyes and her eyebrows furrowing on her forehead but Sigrid seemed to recover and nodded respectfully.
"Thank you, Your Highness."
She left the room, the Dalian healer at her heels and the doors closed behind them.
Thranduil stood back, leaving the field open to his healers. They moved around Bard's motionless body with sure, precise and graceful gestures, using instruments and herbs that only those who knew the secrets of the art of healing could safely handle and soon, the voice of the woman rose in a soft, slow song, in Sindarin, while the man placed his hands above the open wound.
The king let them work without saying a word, watching their every move as his brain raced through the events.
Bard's situation was desperate. He had not said it aloud because he had feared his eldest daughter's reaction. The poison went deep into Bard's veins. He had never treated such a severe infection in the past.
A sigh escaped him in spite of himself and he was surprised to hear the healer call out to him. How much time had passed?
"We are done for now, Your Highness," the Elf explained in a calm, reassuring voice. "We will return every hour to assess the condition of the king."
Thranduil nodded and thanked the two Elves. When they left, he remained alone in the room, suddenly aware of the strange discrepancy that existed between him, the almost immortal and almost invincible being, and the Man lying on the bed, at death's door, defenseless. The time he spent on this Earth had been derisory compared to the destiny of an Elf.
He moved closer to Bard's body and watched him silently.
His breathing was practically non-existent; his chest was barely heaving, his lips remained closed, and there was no sign that he was still alive.
A hand on the Man's forehead told him that the fever was falling: his skin was not as hot as before.
He then placed the tips of his fingers on Bard's throat, below the line of his jaw, searching for the beating of his heart. Here it was but it was very slow, like a distant, unreal melody.
King Bard's heart had sacrificed itself to keep this dying body alive, but Thranduil realized that it was getting tired, second after second, and that it was losing the battle.
The Elven healers returned every hour, as they had said. Like a ritual, they cleaned the gaping wound with fresh cloths, applied balms that they created from the ingredients in their possession and accompanied their treatments with songs of soothing virtues, intended to accompany the King of Men on the path to healing.
Night spread its inky cloak over King Thranduil's realm and the Elvenking stood by Bard's bedside, deep in thought. He had sifted through his memory in order to put his finger on a spell, an incantation or a ritual that would have slowed down the course of the poison, in vain. He had returned to his apartments during the afternoon in order to consult the books he kept in his library, but none mentioned such an extensive infection.
When he questioned her, Sigrid explained to him that the attack dated back to six days. It had taken them two days to come here. If only they had come right away or sent for him...
Thranduil shook his head gently. Rewriting the past was pointless.
Sitting in an armchair, his clear blue eyes resting on the motionless body, the Elf let his thoughts wander for a moment, overcome by a slight fatigue.
A shiver ran down his spine when he came to, his senses alert. Several hours had passed during which he had allowed his mind to wander to rest.
He recognized the silence that hung over the room. He inhaled the scent specific to that elusive moment. He realized without even looking at him that Bard's heart had stopped beating inside his chest.
He did not understand the reasons for his reaction after this assessment and, at the time, he did not try to analyze it. Only a denial swirled in his mind. He could not accept the disappearance of the King of Men and he refused Bard's life ending this way, because of an absurd accident, with brutality and far from the beings who mattered most to him.
Thus, he got up, left the place at a fast pace, locking the doors on his way and went to his library where he hastened to find a particular book. He collected the materials he needed from his chamber and other rooms in the palace and returned as quickly as possible to the place where the lifeless body of King Bard rested.
He put what he had brought on a table and moved it near the bed. He drew the curtains over the windows, locked the doors, and applied a soundproofing spell to the doors, the walls and the windows in order to prevent anyone from hearing what was going on inside. Bard was not likely to make noise in his condition. On the other hand, he suspected that he himself would not be able to remain silent at a precise moment of the ritual.
He picked up the book, opened it, looked for the page he needed and put it in the middle of the table.
There was a way to save Bard. A way to bring him back, he rectified, looking apologetically at the king's body.
He passed the palm of his hand over the now cold forehead of the Man then he busied himself preparing the ritual in the precise order indicated by the writing, which he was deciphering with attention.
When everything was finally ready, King Thranduil took off his long robe and his tunic. He put the clothes on the chair he had occupied earlier. He braided his hair to clear his shoulders and bare chest.
Then he grabbed a dagger with a gleaming blade, which had been lying on the table until then.